Anno Domini: Past, Present & the Book of the Dead
by SAINTIXE56
Summary: Herrick mentionned cavemen and pharaohs; answer to what happened a long time ago...Shadows of all the BH characters we know of, set in a time where Life was not for the meek. 61, 839, 1192, 1684, 2011, and after. French writer, reviews most welcomed.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Being Human characters belong to Toby Whithouse. This being said, nothing prevents scholars to search the realm of "what if". W Herrick claim his kin has spoken to Pharaohs as their equals. What if indeed, how History would be written; knowing what we know and what we shall never know. Homage.

She runs. She runs as fast as she can. She runs like her life depends on it. She runs even if she is normally not a runner. She has never been trained to run. She does not run because she walks graciously, she walks aloof; she is even known to walk angry. But running is not something she does…normally. Since "they" came back, since "they" returned, she has changed her appearance. She is now dressed like everybody, her hair is cut short; she has painted tattoos on her arms to cover her telling-tale ones. She is like everybody now, she is just a nobody. Nobody to tell who she is really; nothing to give her away. She knows that the very second they know who she is, they will kill her. The orders are clear, if "they" find her or any people like her, they are to be killed. Immediately, not interrogated, not transported. Killed on the spot.

They knew retribution would be coming from overseas. As soon as their headquarters would be informed of their uprising; they would make sure the rebellion would be crushed down forever. Even someone like her, just a trainee, just an apprentice would be a target. She knew too much; she was the living memory of her people. People without memory are easy to conquer, easy to lead. Cattle… She is the Memory; she is a lot of things. A healer, a scholar. Poems and battle cries are read by her; the courses of stars are explained by her and her memory. Her memories; the memory of the elders and her own. The memory she would have passed on to others like her…

She runs. She runs up ward, to the North. The North is savage, wild, but it is free. "They" fear the North; they can invade so much. They have to stop somewhere. Somewhere toward the North. That is why she runs up North, to Freedom. To pass her memory to those Northerners. Those free men. The memory of her people will become a part of the Northerners history. She is not afraid of their reputation of savagery. Firstly, she is a poet and poets have nothing to fear from swords. Those Southerners, now, they have killed so many people, so many readers, poets, healers. So many soldiers, warriors, women and children, all lost souls for sheer stupid conquests. The Northerners respect her People; she will obey their own readers, their own memory carriers. She smiles, she is fearless. She has seen in the stars her way and her way has replied her memory will not be lost. But it will not come easy. Such is life. Life is not easy.

By now, she should have heard or seen some other runners. The runners who started with her, running in every direction to distract "them". The ones who willingly sacrificed their lives so she could live and transmit the memory. Silence in the woods. She knows they are gone. Gone, missed, but not forgotten. She knows how to call them back. The stars have taught her which day, which night are good to call the spirits back. "They" call them ghosts. Pitiful Southern Bastards. They are simply gone behind the veil; they are alive…in the mist. They are hidden, but they are alive and she knows how to summon them. For they are kind. They are not to be feared. They are not lamiae or ghouls. Now ghouls and lamiae are what you get when you are evil, when your heart is black. Blacker than an anvil!

She is alone, but she carries on running. Legs are hurting, but she has picked up along the way the plants to strengthen her heart, the fruits to fight the cramps, the leaves to gladden her soul. For she has reasons to weep. Deep inside, she knows that her people, all her people are dead. Dead the elders, dead her parents and brothers, her friends. Dead is not her heart; fiery is her soul. She will live; she will tell and share her memory. Her people are going to live forever. The Northerners will make sure "they" cannot cross over the rivers and the vales. The forests are going to be deadly and that will not be because of the wolves and the "other" creatures of the night. Yesterday was a full moon, an advantage "they" have taken to track her people down, her tired exhausted people. Her people were not involved in the rebellion, but they are like the rebels. Hence they have to die. They had to die. Their stories had to die. Their story will not die. Her hand grasps the long dagger. No one will humiliate, capture or kill her. If she goes, it will be her way, her choice…

She goes, she runs deeper in the forest. The North is very far. How is she going to reach its border without help? She needs help. Help, now. She hears the birds; she hears the silence of the birds. The wild boar which path she has crossed is her ally, so is the wild bull. The powerful animals are going to get in the way of her pursuers. They know her heart; they know she has never spilt blood and that she worships the great spirits of Nature. "They" are going to be delayed, hindered by the sacrifice of the beasts. Beasts who are not, which beasts are not, but who, now, for the time being, are the bodies of her lost people. "They" think themselves civilized; they think her people are nothing but savages. They know nothing. They do not read the stars which tell of the coming anger of the mountain of fire in less than twenty years; they do not even know of the Western Great Isle…

She runs. She is tired, all her body aches; but she runs. She prays. Somewhere, somehow in this forest, there must be someone to help her out. Before she runs out, before she is captured. Before she kills herself to avoid capture. Because she will not share her memory, because she will not tolerate to see her memory, the memory of her people soiled by "them". Because Death is sometimes the most honourable way out. Because courted Death can be like a lovely maiden eager to run toward her bridegroom arms. Chosen Death is a way to protect her people. From dishonour, from a fate worse than Death.

He wakes up. Again. Again someone has been killed, somewhere. If it is some wild beast, it is not a problem. But if it is a human, somewhere people are in tears. Because of him. That is why he has retired far, deep in the forest. To put no people at risk. To put anymore people at risk. The elders say it is not one's fault to be scratched. The elders said. Because there are no more elders. His people have been discarded, erased. Not by him, this is the only blessing of this new life. "They" have destroyed his people, killed every and each of his people; including the readers, the poets. His people were not angry at him; they accepted the spirit of the wolf in him. He would be a berserker, and when the moon would near fullness as a woman ready to give birth, he would go deep in the forest or be driven to a cave until next morning they would roll out the big stones and free him. His people are dead, the reader is dead and so is the memory of his people. Only he survives…because of the Wolf spirit.

This is ironic. Some old crone was killed by a wolf. A posse of hunters was sent to clear the woods from the wolves pack and they found …a wolf indeed. They killed him, naturally. Too late they realized it was a man-wolf; that was when he got scratched. The curse was on him; but the elders were not worried. To have a wolf warrior is not a bad thing; especially in those troubled times when the Southerners are coming like locusts! When "they" came, he has fought along his friends. All his people, his parents, his friends have been slaughtered; a few had hoped for slavery; but even that was refused to the children. Not that they would have survived long in the mines.

Only he has been spared. Would not have been spared if the dark man in the gaudy dress and robes had not whispered in their leader ears about him. He knows it was about him as the leader was inclined at first to say NAY. He should not have been spared; he should have died, by his friends' side. That was honourable; he would have been remembered as a warrior, not as a man-wolf. A shape-shifter. A berserker. All was more honourable than…this. He was charged with chains, put into a ridiculously small cage on wheels and rolled out. "They" had washed their hands from him. He expected to become another temporary event in their big rings. A fighter against other fighters. Though from the beginning, he could feel something was wrong with the heavily tanned man.

He knows now there are tanned people and dark people. His people do not know the people of the great Southern continent. But he knows; he has met others, like him. He has seen one ring and what the dark man with the dark eyes does; the dark people with the black orbs and the long fangs. Running slaves armed with a single dagger against men-wolves. Poor slaves, poor brothers. He had seen it all; tomorrow was going to be his big day. The black eyed ones had told him he was to go along another like him and slaughter a few humans; to spice it up they were going to add a bear from the German forests. He was not going to give in. the other men-wolves had agreed. They would not hurt any humans anymore. If blood was going to be spilled, it would be the blood of the black-orbs people. Those monsters are strong, but they are no match to the warriors of his country. Fair enough many, about all were killed, but he has managed to escape.

He is free and he has the memory of his people. If only he could meet a reader, he could transmit the knowledge. But then every full moon, he would carry on being a monster. Better be lost in the deep forest, far from humanity; better disappear than put people lives at risk from him. The fanged ones have tried to run after him; they were laughable attempts. He runs fast, he knows the forest. They call him savage, they were savages, breaking branches, noisy hunters, revealing more about themselves than their game would ever reveal about him.

He is free and he is lonely. Alone. No maiden to share his couch, no more children to look forward to, one day. No more story, no more people, no nothing…

Too bad, too bad and frustrating. He is not happy, he is very unhappy. He had it all planned and those stupid thick barbarians have spoilt his plans. Since his own country has been invaded by those barely educated "barbaroi" and that includes those mincing Greeks, he and his people have been obliged to start it all over again. Mixing with the powerful, bending their backs to hide their eyes, smiling with hands covering barred fangs, climbing back to power against all odds behind the Emperor, the power behind the curtains. Managing fun games and Seth knows how those Romans like their games. Now the Greeks, the Egyptians they never ever favoured the type of games he likes. The Romans uncouth as they are, favour venationes. Since he has visited Rome, he has helped to and helped himself to those games. He chooses who dies in the arena, and he keeps for him the dogs. My, my, who knew there are so many dogs in the barbaroi forests? They call them wolf-warriors. Silly buggers…

He let the Romans have their gladiator games; he has his own ring with healthy young dogs, mostly males which is curious. Seth decides; Seth, blessed Him, knows better than him. Seth knows all. Seth, whose realm was almost destroyed by the lunatic believer in Aton. That Pharaoh was …evil. He made sure Seth temples were closed. Among those of Ra and Amon; but the target was Seth. Akhenaton is dead. Caesar rules now. The name of the ruler has changed. He is still there.

The dogs fight, they kill the slaves. They are strong; but they do not like it. Since when his people should pay attention to the like and dislikes of dogs…

Some Western barbaroi having dared to revolt against the might of Rome, soldiers were sent to quell the rebellion. He does not like boats; he does not like the Roman navy. Boats are dangerous, tempests happen then nothing is found ever. Many vampires have launched a well planned silent invasion of those isles and never to be seen again. The Greeks say it is because of the mermaids. Do sea people exist? Why not! He exists. Seth would like the idea of sentient fish! Sobek exists, why not Sirens!

He survived the crossing; a lot better than the Gaul crossing. So many dogs, that was interesting. Too many dogs, that was dangerous. The human Gauls are sullen, they do not like Romans, they do not care for vampires and they like their dogs. They hunt their own dogs to be fair; but it is them who are the hunters, for they hunt also vampires and "things happen, Sir". They also like forests, though not as badly as the Germans. Since he has set foot in Ostia, he cannot believe it. This continent is teaming with dogs. Which is fascinating and his last papyrus has clearly advised his coven to gather their belongings and move in with the new kid on the block.

Vampires like him, love the cities. They do not like the dark forests. Forests which are full of dogs. He is making, thus, an exception. It has got his attention that dogs are to be found in the wilderness. The generals have been sent to calm down the Britons, those damned Iceni, that red headed bitch Boadi…whatever outlandish name it is, she is now no more. At the same time, the legions have settled some scores and sorted out a few tribes who just happened to be in the way on the very angry Romans. "They" had seen what the rebel tribes had done to the colons settled around Londinium and decided to avenge the Eagles. That is how he found this luscious Briton dog. The dog had rejoined his likes in the kennel. But the dogs had decided to rebel also. This island was teeming with undutiful slaves. Result: all the dogs carefully selected dead, and his last acquisition on the run. Try and find a needle in those forests…

No choices but go along as special councillor to the Tribune and try and find other dogs. Meanwhile have fun and enjoy the way the Roman Tribune got rid of the rebel tribes and their druids. Funny priests. Male and female alike. No temple, though. They do not worship Seth; that would be a miracle. They pray trees or water springs; they pray boars or bulls like Apis. They have a gold sickle, they have an amazing memory. A memory much better than his own! All their tribe history is enclosed in their heads; and they are doctors, poets, astronomers. They see the future, they speak to the dead; they see the dead and they know him for who he is. The Roman Senate, the Emperor, they are damn well right; let's kill all those nosey druids!

Stupid human, stupid druid or is it druidess? The woman has escaped the legionaries. She is running, he is running after her. He was peckish with that exercise; he had despatched the 3 human soldiers who were with him. If there is blood on his robes, he can plead the onslaught of rebellious Britons. He must find the woman, the girl and sort her out before she informs the other tribes, the humans. He is too deep in the forest, too deep in the Island. If she makes it and informs the tribes…he knows he will not survive. He barely survived Gaul because he boarded in time the naval onslaught. No Briton must know he is a vampire, no Briton dog must know he is alone without the protection of the Roman Legion. He runs after the human; he has found her track; the smell of her blood is unmistakable. She must have scratched her fair skin when she fell over that stone. This is the end of the game. His fangs are out, he is not afraid of showing his black orbs…

She runs, she is exhausted. The last straw was when she fell and cut her cheek on the big stone. She runs because she has to, because she must. Her heart is ready to give out. She runs but she is short, she is going to fall soon. Her hand grasps the dagger, the dagger gives her strength. The birds do not sing, the forest is silent. She knows the Romans are on her; or rather one of them is on her. The others are dead since a long time. She does not understand why the tanned man has killed them, but she knows he is evil. She knows because she is a druid, she speaks to the people on the other side of the Sidh, she rejoices at Samhain; she sees and speaks to the Dead. Her pursuer is an Un-Dead. She has heard of his kind. She must warn the Northern Tribes. Men-wolves are one thing; those people are human most of the time and they are happy to be buried alive when comes the full moon. They are noisy , they are bloody brutes and killers, then the next morning , they are found sleeping like babies and they are good and strong warriors too. Mostly they are human; if they are cursed it is not their fault. It is the Gods decision to have made berserkers. She runs; she could do with the protection of such a warrior.

It has started by a faint noise, which has steadily grown noisier. Broken branches, halted running, hesitating steps, panting, running, panting. He can almost hear the heart. It is human, yet it is like an exhausted outrun doe. Or a terrified mare. Fighting but outrun. What is the blasted woman doing in the woods? There are wolves, real wolves. If she persists in running deeper toward him, he has no choice but meeting her to protect the stupid girl from the real danger. Thanks to the Gods, he is human today; yesterday he would have killed her… He walks quietly toward her; she is so exhausted she is almost turning into a circle. What is she doing? She is crazy…or suicidal. His ears have picked up the other noises, the other broken branches and he freezes. He knows that noise; that was the noise of a black orbs creature. Is he going to be hunted again? The fanged one is not after him; he is after the human doe. That settles it for him.

He can accept to be a berserker, he can accept to go to the caves every full moon, and howl like a demonic beast. He has killed no human yet, he will not. He will not accept to see a human killed by the fanged ones. The Romans are fools, they have brought back from their Egyptian colony vampires and vampires are going to spread all over the Celtic world, the Germanic world, Gaul, Britain. Where will it stop? Today, it will stop here; he picks up his spears, his axes and his sword. He does not know if it is going to help, but he is not going to see any woman of his country be slaughtered again by any bloody foreigner.

He is almost on her. He will drink her precious blood. Possibly he will get her magic, her knowledge. Imagine how powerful he could be if the powers of the female druid were his, he could summon the deads and the un-deads. He could turn her, but nothing proves she will be thankful; for all he knows, she may decide to stake him and herself. Recruits have been known to be resentful; recruits have been known to kill their sire. Kill is going to be the right decision, beside he is hungry…

She is almost gone, she cannot run anymore. She cannot almost walk, anymore. She can only hope…he has heard her. She knows he is there somewhere in the forest. She has tried to be the noisiest of prey, the stupidest too, running into circles to let the monster come closer. To accept the danger till the danger stops being. She knows that if the berserker hears her, he is bound to come to her rescue. She knows because she is a reader, she knows because the stars told her. She knows because she is a bit of a witch…Not that she is a witch; she simply reads the signs, reads the stars, better than the Roman Emperor astrologers…

All goes now very quick. She has ended up in a meadow, she barely walks, and she stumbles. The Gods? What is their decision? They like games, they like rolling dices. She knows how to read the dices; but she is not the one who rolls them. There is a shadow. Her head turns; it is the dark eyed monster. He is going to kill her…

...not!

The Briton warrior sword is swift. The vampire has heard the 2 hearts; overwhelmed by his blood lust, he has callously dismissed the second heart ignoring the stronger heartbeat. The vampire head rolls among the wild flowers; the monster is now properly dead. All is left in the meadow is the woman and the warrior, the human and the monster. The innocent and the man-wolf, the were-wolf. The druid, the sorceress and the man.

He has saved her; but does it change a thing to the curse? He has saved her and it gives her hope to reach safe and sound the Picts; there safe with the Northern Tribes, she will inform people how to beware of the Romans. The memory of her people is safe too; she will find other readers, other children like her a long time ago, a happy time ago. The berserker wants to leave. He is leaving, when a hand on his tattooed arm tells him to stop. Since when a woman tells a warrior to stop? Since readers have precedence over warriors. The North road is this way; see the bark of the oak tree. He does not want to come. To show his shame to more people. He has to come for she fears other vampires. Other tribes will know her, she does not fear Britons. Will against will. The blond short hair woman and the tall warrior.

- "What if I scratch you? I will not risk it…"

- "Since when human scratches alter the course of the stars? Pray, do come. I need protection"

- "What if you become…like me…"

- "Then it will be the decision of the Gods. There is nothing to fear from them…"

- "I am a werewolf, I am damned"

" I am a shaman, I have nothing to fear from a shape-shifter"

The meadow is now empty. A long time ago, a man and a woman have left, going up North to warn the other tribes the Romans were planning a full invasion of the Isle. The Picts are going to make sure no Roman crosses a somewhat horizontal line just above the Western lakes; the Egyptian vampires will think twice before trying to invade Britain.

Meanwhile every full moon, while the berserker howls to the Moon, the witch keeps her vigil by the cave. Both are safe in the knowledge he cannot hurt her. It is not perfect as far as anything more is forbidden; but it is good enough for them. She keeps both tribes memories alive; he protects her for even a druid safety is not guaranteed in the wilderness. After the full moon, when he awakes, he knows that she is there. Not perfect, but better than nothing…

The meadow is empty, except for the decaying head with the long fangs. This is not perfect at all, and there is nothing he can do. For Eternity, he is stuck in that skull, his body is almost rotten. Nobody is going to resurrect him. All he has to do is waiting till his people finally cross again the sea and find him. The druid priestess and the warrior have long gone; they are dead probably now. They have had a long life, a happy life of some sort. Not perfect, but a lot better than being alive and thinking and stuck into that nothingness of a dried up skull…


	2. Chapter 2

This chapter, set later in time studies how vampires spread around the world. It was not easy and like every thing it came with a price. In the first chapter vampires were cruel, this time some humans are more vindictive than the blood suckers. Vampires like humans can fall in love. Like humans, they realize one only knows what is Love when you have lost it.

History, real History is either a boring list of names or a fascinating tale. A tale of woes and wonders like the sagas song by the bards of his native North. A tragedy if you like, which as usual does not end well. And it hurts.

His own history started …when was it? When one of the Jarls decided that trading would be a good idea with those debauched Southerners.

No, man! One does not trade with those hapless islanders; and not with those spineless traitorous cousins.

The real Southerners. The ones who live real south, where the seas are so blue and the sun so warm it turns your skin like lobsters! You have to understand warriors are also, can also be traders. What you can make your own, claim as your own: you take. What is too far, too much away from your grasp: you observe. And you try to understand what makes it so powerful, so blazingly rich!

So trading he went with his clan. South. They sent an embassy. And they made them laugh.

The Basileus must have been in a humorous mood because he granted an audience to all the barbaroi at the same time. The Vikings met with Alfred the Essex King envoys and Charles the Bald snotty courtiers. The Frankish aristocrats were a lot less snotty and a lot meeker when they met face to face his people. The Norse men ambassador was keen on commercial trading, the English were hoping for an imperial recognition. A Symbol of friendship adding value to the Saxon King claim to be King of Britain. The Franks were looking for support on the Mediterranean Sea.

The Spanish Caliphates were getting nervous on the other side of the Pyrenees. Since the death of the great emperor, his kingdom was almost in dereliction. The Mahometans were ready to try and invade again Northern Europe. The Vikings, too, had seen an opportunity. The Franks were not to be outdone. The Vikings were relentlessly attacking to forge a foothold but the Franks had some cunning plan. Already, his brothers settled in Francia were becoming …snotty too. He was betting that one day and that day was nearing, they would consider themselves as…Franks. Modified from savage enemies to protectors. Franks with Viking savagery, serving the Frank King. Just like in Britain, becoming everyday a bit more Saxon till one day the Vikings would be absorbed into the British mould.

For a young man hardly out from his native cold and foggy land, Byzantium was like a fairy tale. The streets were gorging of riches and the smells of spices were enticing. Silk dresses, haughty damsels. Lovely lasses, but not to be touched. The Greeks were keeping the beauties under closed walls and the Emperor had eunuchs! Brr…

In the palace the well shaved oily short cropped civil servants welcomed their very hairy counterparts. The closer their country was to the Greeks, the sleeker the embassy.

The Viking ambassador was clearly out of his depth. Firstly, he was …pagan. Hence they were instructed they would become Christians? Now? Catholic Orthodox? Whereas the Saxons and the Franks were Christians but Roman Catholics. It made no sense at all. If there was only one God, this God who had the powers of all his Gods could not

care less if you were Roman or Byzantine, a Swede or a Dane? Gods, as far as he could tell, never really paid attention to humans. They only cared to receive enough blood, enough enemies' lives.

Secondly, they were not really interested into the furs brought by the Norsemen. "You must agree; warmth is not something missing here". Thirdly, they were interested into…them. In him? They were so…wrong! They had plenty of dark haired beauties and… What…Ah, they wanted men as in mercenaries. He was not interested in becoming a lackey for complicated Greeks who wanted to be Christians but different Christians despite the same God, the very same Holy Book. Greeks had eunuchs! He liked Life to be simple. Black, white and no gray!

The embassy was not going perfectly well. He had tried to look at the defensive walls of the city and quickly learned that the Greeks might be looking effeminate…but they were not! Not stupid and good warriors too. The Saxons hated the Norsemen and avoided them as much as possible. The Franks were affable; the Franks had a big project going on. The Norse embassy was invited to the Frankish quarters. There was wine and the Franks were happy to discuss trade, wine barrels and furs, for their land had harsh winters if their summers were warm and dry. The Viking diplomatic retinue has happy of this turn of events. The Greeks did not like the Northerners; too bad for them. The Northerners would trade among kindred spirits. To be polite, the Franks invited some enlightened Greeks who were not keen to prose on Orthodoxy and Roman Heresies!

That was when Fate presented its double face. On one side, Andreas, smiling, courteous, ironic, smart, elegant, all what he was not and was not interested in. Andreas and his curious smile, a graceful youth who knew how to handle a dagger. And her, Hildegard for whom he wanted to be smart, elegant, courteous. As wise in the way of the world as he was, Andreas was not interested yet by women; good lad. The young Norseman had been attracted to the girl like a moth to light. In Byzantium, there are lots of women. The Empress, the Emperor mother, his consort, their retinue of noble and nobler ladies all strictly unobtainable; then the merchants' ladies as unobtainable. It seemed as long as you had some sort of rank in the obscure hierarchy of the Empire, women were going about with a tag written "For Greeks only"; then you had the numerous whores of the brothels. Ready to open their legs and share with you unpleasant conditions causing urgent visits to the local apothecary! Welcome to Byzantium and a long spell of celibacy and chastity. He was moaning inwardly, gazing at his wine cup and half listening to Andreas who was interested by Britain when his ambassador called him.

He walked to his side, expecting more polite smiles, more meaningless chitchat, or so convolved into trading he was going to have to lock his jaws from yawning undiplomatically. The Frankish counterpart was also intent of the same senseless conversation…when she materialized. Silence ensued. The three embassies were male only but for the Franks who were known to enjoy female companionship…a lot. Their ambassador had brought along his ward. To find her a wealthy Greek suitor, or a Roman suitor. The nationality did not matter. To marry her off was his concern; it was that or the convent. The lass was trying to find out if in Byzantium she could find an acceptable bed companion who would not bore her to death at the following breakfast table. To say they were meant for each other was an understatement. The lady was of noble birth: translated in Norse out of your league, lad. The lady was facing the prospect of an elderly fat and bald husband. He saw a graceful comely young brunette with mischievous blue eyes; she looked at a dark long hair young man taller than her countrymen with severe brows above smiling brown eyes, a good looking young warrior who made her heart beat faster.

Andreas raised his eyes to the ceiling. This Viking was volatile. A nice kid, though. Clearly more interested by the curves of the lass than politics. The Norsemen had to be humoured and befriended. Since a long time, his …people had heard of Britain. But been unable to land and conquer it. Gaul had never been successfully pacified, and Francia was still a backwater. Those countries were teaming with deep Forests where wolves were hiding. Wolves that could, who should be played with. Who were out of his grasp, which would become his plaything if he could decide this Viking to take him along back to Britain? His…brothers were already getting mighty matey with the Saxons. Politics meant befriending every nationality till his kin were established all over the planet, like a wave of locusts leaving any life signal not unscorched!

Hildegard was bored. Bad enough to know her betrothed was waiting for her in his castle nursing a gouty foot, but she had to smile to Britons who could not make head or tail of what she said though being perfectly able to try and put their hands on places they should not. When it was not the Britons, it was those savages who were intent to cut a kingdom near Rouen, near her Sequana River too close to Paris for the safety of the capital. They had also noticed the woman, a good looking woman of their race. Not that she was of Norse blood, she was also a Northerner, just a bit more South. A virtuous lady; not a whore. A woman with whom they could flirt without having to pay and translate the joke, a woman with whom they had to prove they were intelligent. A woman they could not risk to anger if the looks of her countrymen had anything to go by. Off limits, the gentle lady is ours. The three embassies, two ambassadors, a smitten of Greeks were all smiles to the lady. The lady was aloof and unbothered. No way was she going to bury herself in Britain; no way was she going to give more than lip service to the Vikings. The only civilized men were the Greeks. That courtier, that page Andreas, now he knew how to make a lady blush… Then she saw him and she was lost.

Andreas had seen it all and calculated the odds. He needed a foot hole in Britain; he had it now. Fate had placed the two humans in his hands. He bore them no ill will; he bore no ill will to anybody. When he was turned some 4 or 5 hundred years ago in Alexandria at the time the great library was burnt down, he was angry at the Christians. Andreas was a pagan, he was proud to have stuck to the faith of his elders. Naturally in Byzantium, he pretended. He professed that he went to Church; he had nicely set his own…chapel. A private chapel nobody had seen, but everyone knew he liked icons and he prayed. The fools, they did not know his attitude to the icons was…iconoclastic! He liked the palaces; but he knew, he could see some people were getting doubts. He could clear them; he had cleared out a few doubters. But the new dynasty was ruthless and he knew it was time to fly from Byzantium. Britain it was going to be. Francia was troubled by intestine feuds between the old tired dynasty and the early burgeons of a new dynasty. His…kin was ready to slip behind the curtains of the leader whoever won that dynastic war. Britain: Saxons? Vikings? It would be Vikings. His brothers had made…a lasting impression to some Norsemen. It was time to modify radically the very limited knowledge those Northerners had on his people. If the Viking wanted the girl, he would have the girl…at a price. A bloody expensive price.

As the days have flown, the Norse and the Greek have really hit it off. Andreas has learnt to like the warrior fundamental honesty and Sigmund likes the Greek sense of humour. It started as a chase; it is now a real friendship. If anything, Andreas wonders if he is not discovering what it means to have a brother?

The wench had been snared by a promised arrival of silk. She had gone to the bazaar. Just by chance, she met the dashing Norse warrior who in turn just by chance had heard of the heralded arrival of more silk further down the bazaar. Ribbons...Women and their endless attraction for dressing up. She had lost her way in the bazaar; then a quick hand on her mouth, a muffled cry, some good rope; the wench was carried away from the merchants market, transported aboard a ship and away they all went.

Sigmund the Norse, Sigmund son of Bjorni had coveted the wench, the wench was his. Andreas expected the Viking to refuse to pay; but the young man had accepted without discussion. An honest buyer. So….refreshing. After that, the boat had started to miss here and there some sailors as the warrior was hungry. Andreas was happy. Sigmund was not. The wench was not giving in. She refused steadfastly to be turned, she refused to share his couch, she refused to be touched, and she refused everything. She tried to get out of the boat, she jumped in the sea trying to swim back to the shore, and she managed to get a stake out of a candle stick! She was in a fighting mood!

Hildegard was possibly stupid not to have realized the young man had not met her by sheer luck while she was perusing the delights of the clothes merchants; she was not dumb. She thought he wanted simply a bit of dalliance; she was not opposed to that. To say she welcomed his attentions was an understatement; she enjoyed them very much. Given a choice between a gouty foot and an easy on the eye young blade, the choice was made before being offered. But to be kidnapped in broad daylight, carried on his shoulder like she was a rug! To find herself in a smelly boat, offered the position of favourite concubine was not her choice. If he wanted her, he would have to marry her properly! And be nice to her ruffled feathers; she was used to be served in fine silverware, she had maids to braid her long hair. She was no whore…and she was a maid…and she was not used to be treated like that!

Viking against Frank, vampire against human the odds were in his favour. But man against stubborn, feisty girl, he did not stand a chance! Just a few minutes ago, in a flash of seconds, his right cheek had suffered the wrath of the spiteful woman. His red cheek bore testimony of her temper. If the man needs were not answered then the vampire would have to take charge. The vampire left cheek proved that she was not taking barred fangs for a key to her virtue. The stake was ridiculous; it was not frightening him at all…until he realized she meant it for her. Rather die, rather commit suicide, rather burn in Hell as the monks of the nearby abbey who had taught her how to read and write her name in preparation of her wedding, had told her. Suicide was a sin; our Lord would forgive her because to become a vampire was worse than suicide. Some sailor had paid with his life his frustration. Andreas had tried to convince her. After all, she had befriended him and he knew how to speak to women. When you are 5 hundred years old, you have some experience in convincing reluctant prospective converts. Andreas had not been able to walk further than the threshold. He has quickly stepped back at the hurled stake. Hildegard was unattainable, unassailable…

When they reached back the Danes law, Hildegard was still human and as blameless as she had left her guardian's Embassy. Andreas was inwardly wondering if by becoming a vampire at 17, he had missed something, some secret knowledge about females; Sigmund was physically frustrated, emotionally drained, thirsty as … Only blood was able to keep his temper under check. Slowly very slowly, had she opened the door of the boat cabin where she had been "stored". The trip to Francia had been Hell and she had seen so many horrible things; the young Greek was a… vampire and more vampires had made sure that they would cross diagonally her country to another boat , another sail this time to the foggy island. She was going to Britain and the only face for which she had tender feelings was that snake, that Norse vampire for he was a vampire too. Holding the stake to her heart, she had been obliged to ride behind him. They could not "make" her, but they could make her obey and go with them. She was the price of some invasion! Poor Britons…

He wants her on his own terms; a total surrender. Not to the vampire, not to the warrior. To the man. She wants a man, not a monster and she wants to be married. Because she is a lady. Andreas scratches his stubble. This is impossible. They are vampires; they do not go to church. Any church. Even a pagan temple is painful and By Mars Ultor, "he" still" believes in the Gods. Could a union, blessed by…. Nature be agreeable? His hair is still wet from the water bucket she hurled at him. The vampiric youth does not mind at all the humidity. He has given an occasion to Sigmund to laugh and the rebellious wench has laughed too. Sigmund has jumped on the occasion to try and move forward with the lady. And it seems to work…

She has not accepted yet to be turned; but great progress has been made. She is still a maiden; Sigmund groans enough about stupid virtuous ladies who should know better than deny any healthy male. But she will come around; she has to come around. This game has to stop! The game has to stop because a stupid Christian priest has doubts. Most of the Vikings are still pagans, Andreas has avoided the churches and when it comes to mirrors, the barbaroi lack of reflective implements is not to be deplored. But the Priest has doubts; when they are back from Jarvik where he is going to build the first ever coven of Britain, he will get rid of the priest and play Cupid for the lovers. If Hildegard refuses to be turned by Sigmund, he will turn her. Problem solved; he is not in love with the wench. Too temperamental she is!

The priest knows them. They are savages, they are also….different. He has heard of them. They need to be eradicated. They…what of her. She lives with a servant, a human servant like her. Both alone in a cottage. He knows she is of noble birth, you cannot miss the refined hands, the soft skin, the noble mien and the way she walks says it all. The serves bend their backs, she stands tall and proud. As proud as the vampiric warrior whose eyes never go far from her. If he was human, he would press for a wedding if…, but she is virtuous and a convent would be the best solution rather than marrying a pagan. It cannot be not wedding or convent. He is a vampire, she is human and she is about to lose her virginity, and her soul. A maid should stay pure and bury her physical attractions which cause men to sin in a tightly shut convent; a maid at risk to be deflowered by a vampire and a Viking should save her soul and bury her life at the bottom of a well. The vampires keep a close watch on her. He has tried to speak to her; the guards have repulsed him. They were in pain, but they have protected her from his Christian ministrations. He knows she prays alone at the chapel of our Lady of the Lilies. She prays there because the lilies remind her of her country. The kingdom of the Lilies. Alone in the wood, the vampires close to the chapel as close as can be to prevent her from escaping, far enough to allow her to pray. How to save her soul…

Today, the two star crossed lovers have walked alone. She knows she cannot resist much longer; she is afraid. The Gods do not exist, and there are more than one. If she insists, he will find a solution. He will send a parchment to her guardian announcing she is marrying him. It will not say she is married; he will simply ask the old man blessings. Her people will believe her virtue intact and he looks at himself as much as solemnly pledged to her as any knight of her country. She is His lady, he loves her forever; he really loves her for Eternity and they are going to be eternally together. The vampire blood will make sure of that. Does she love him too? She does. She loves him more than her own life; probably too much for her own good. Does …does it hurt? No…well yes, but it is going to be quick and she will forget about it. She does not mean that! She means the bite. It will hurt…a lot and after that she is going to see quite horrible things. People beating the living daylights out of her and people ready to hang her. She must stay proud; she must not surrender to the fear. She has to remember one thing and one thing only. He loves her because she will wake up in his arms, the nightmare will be over and they will be together forever. After that, they will become one…though he cannot promise she may be…thirsty first. She is afraid of that; of becoming thirsty. She does not want to kill. She is not afraid of losing her soul; she lost it a long time ago when she fell in love with him. But killing, drinking people's blood… Feeling he has achieved a lot, he will ready to go to Jarvik to help Andreas and his coven plans. When he returns, he is going to press more and he feels he is going to win the coveted prize. And it feels good to be waiting when you know the prize is ready for your own pick! She will be in the garden outside by the lilies…

The Saxon serf is very unhappy. His country is raided by savages, the Saxon lords are cruel, his wife and children have died on those unexplained fevers; his only hope is in the Crucified God. His hope for salvation has now lost as since almost 4 weeks he has been scratched. All because he was hungry, he went to the woods under the full moon to try and trap some rabbits, some small game. All he has got was a long scratch on his leg. He has seen the monster and he knows he is a monster now. His soul is lost. He is going to see the priest if there is something to be done to prevent eternal damnation. A werewolf! You are damned, poor creature. You are… wait a minute. Now you would be damned forever, sent to Satan Lake of eternal fire if you were to die without God at your side. If he was to accomplish some heroic deed in the name of God, God would be merciful, see the purity of his heart and forgive his sins, his horrible shameful sin! Tonight is a full moon; tonight the serf is going to serve God's will and God's designs. Tonight a soul is in grave danger, like his. If he saves this soul, he will save that soul at the same time. God's designs work in mysterious ways. A monster will save a soul from another monster. But she will become a monster! No, she will not. She is a good Christian like him. She will willingly walk to him and God likes martyrs. The va…Vikings are going to Jarvik. Tomorrow, the soul about to be contaminated but still pure is going to receive his visit. Her servant keeps a close watch, but the servant is human and will let him in. He will convince the lady she has to walk to meet her destiny.

The serf is afraid, but his soul is going to be saved, the priest is angry and in the mood for a fight. Souls must be saved at whatever cost. A woman has lost her soul to a pair of brown broody eyebrows and is terrified of the cost. A monster has lost his own soul a long time ago and does not care at all; another monster believes there is no price coming to a lost soul. All are going to discover God and Gods alike do set a very high price to souls.

He is not happy; she should have been there at the usual meeting place. She is not, she has had cold feet. Where is she? He is now angry. She should have been there. He accepts it is not easy for her; he will sort out her fears for once and for all. Once like him, she will be…like him. No more fears, no more maiden restraint. Free to roam,

Free to drink like him. As hungry, as lustful as him. His for Eternity. United by love and bloodlust. But she is not there. She was not there and he walks to her house. To remonstrate this is not the way to treat a faithful lover, especially a lover…like him.

She is not there. He checks all the rooms; she is missing. Entering her bedroom, the servant is startled. The wench is worried; where is her mistress? Where is she if she is not with him? Where is she? That is when the doubts start. When the fear insidiously creeps in your heart. Where is she?

The priest, the Saxon priest, knowing he was away visiting Jarvik, has come to see "your lady". The servant does not know what the blasted priest discussed with her; with "his" lady. He knows now she wept for the servant has overheard the words of eternal damnation and lost souls. A kind advice to pray was given. Where? In the chapel, he would know. The chapel in the forest, near the spring. The Chapel of Our Lady of the Lilies.

What? Alone? At night? In the forest? During the baleful full moon! When all the monsters are out, lying in wait for the blood of the innocent. The priest has sent her to meet her death under the guise of brotherly guidance.

He runs quick. He has always been a fast runner. Since he has been turned, his skill is unsurpassed. Where is the chapel? He does not like the Christians; he does not like religions. If his Pagan Gods have not been able to protect him from the vampires, at least they have not asked for a human sacrifice. The Christians for all their fancy words, they pray a God who self sacrificed himself. Today he knows, deep in his heart, the priest has requested the same fate from her. She is to be slaughtered; she is to be the sacrificial lamb. Cursed priest. It is gnawing him; he runs and it is ripping his chest apart. He will become a Christian; he will accept everything, every fancy the Priest wants. He will go to Rome; he will even accept to lose her. But Gods; God spare her! If ever a vampire can believe in Gods or a God, it will be him. Whoever it is, Thor or the Crucified God, he will believe in. She must be saved, she must be spared. Surely Gods would be merciful on her innocence. They surely cannot bay for her blood…

The water of the spring is clean; the meadow is devoid of any heart beat. The remains are scattered on the wild flowers, there is blood all over. On the bouquet she was carrying for the Lady; on the walls of the chapel she never reached though it would have made no difference. The only thing which remains intact from the slain woman is the silk ribbon he gave her a long time ago when they walked together in the Byzantine Bazaar.

He prays; he does not know who he is praying. He prays it was a swift blow; he prays she did not see it coming. She must not have seen the creature; she must have fallen like flowers mown by a sickle. He hopes it happened like that but he knows it is not true, the way her body lays…Her body, he feels sick thinking about the word. The top and the lower part of the body are intact; in the middle, there is a huge red hole to put it as simple, as pain free as it can be. Except it was not pain free for her. The dead cannot feel the pain, do they? What if she saw the dog and was terrified; what if she suffered greatly?

He realizes he is now kneeling and holding her tight in his arms, whispering all the things he wanted to tell her but never found the time. He realizes that too late. He never knew he had so much to tell her. Because he had taken her for granted. Because he would turn her, he would convince her. If she refused, he would do it; none the less. A lot of good to him it does now, this magical power of his. Because you have to turn a live person. Not a cold corpse like the one he is holding…The corpse of the woman he loves. Because he loves her even if…she is this corpse. Or she is not… He has heard of ghosts. But she is not a ghost. Otherwise she would be seen, body less possibly but still there. Ethereal, but still somehow alive. A ghost, he is now begging for a ghost. This wish is not granted. His sire has told him about the doors. Her door threshold has been long crossed. There is nothing for him in the quiet meadow but this corpse…

But still he holds it. He has Eternity at his side, and he holds a corpse. He is un-dead, he has defied successfully Death and it is Death who won the fair lady hands. He tells her of all the untold dreams he had for them, the unvoiced dreams, and the beleaguered hopes. He would have found a way out, a solution. The Gods have solved everything on one single roll of dices. God had cheated, the bastard!

God, her God has not protected her. He has tantalizing shown him what Paradise was and when he believed he could get in; he has been thrown away to Hell. All he wants, is a day, an hour, just a few instants to see her again alive, to tell her good bye, to see the door and get in with her. To steal her from Death, like he stole her from her guardian. Death has stolen her.

Funny, Death…Funny. In Life, you cannot find the time to say certain words; you perceive those words as inadequate. After Life, in Death, you realize you should have said those words; you wish an ear could listen to them because they mean so much to you, and you know they would have meant the same to the absent.

- "Come. It is better this way"

- "What!"

- "She would have never accepted to be recruited. Many hoped-for recruits have been known to commit suicide. Some souls cannot bear the…They cannot be like us. There must be something in the way their souls are woven. It is cruel but it is better"

- "She was gentle"

- "Aye. Randver will go back and inform the villagers. We are going to go after the dog who did that. She would have never been one of us, true. But the dog wronged you. Dogs cannot be allowed to wrong their betters"

- "The priest…he sent her…"

- "We shall…I shall take care of him personally. Gentle souls are not made to become vampires. His soul…Now his soul…I know you are not going to like it…But it is the best punishment for him"

- "She was ambushed"

- "Aye. The priest sent her exactly where the dog would be waiting"

Dogs have no problem with religion or faith. They are held cursed, true. They still can rejoice and hope for salvation. Unlike him. Unlike them. The priest wanted to save her soul. Her soul is saved, pristinely white, totally pure. Dead.

-"I could use the priest door. Pull her out…"

-"Sigmund…In my native land, a long time ago…let me tell you a story while we look after the dog"

-"I am not in the mood for fairy tales…"

-"Humour me. A long time ago, a poet – like your bards, a warrior too…Orpheus was his name. He had loads of adventures; remind me to tell you about those. You can't stay an uncouth Norseman. You need proper education. Where was I? Orpheus had a wife, a beautiful lovely lady… a bit…a lot like your Hildegard. Lady name went by Eurydice (She who rejoices at Justice…) anyhow, he loves her, and she loves him. This is not the end of the story. Greek tales are complicated, full of Fate and cruel Destiny. A God saw her and decided to ravish her. Hence poor Eurydice stuck in Hell. No, not the Christian Hell…us Pagan Greeks have a nice Hell. It is simply the name we give to the place where the Deads live. For all I know, Hildegard is there, shadow among other shadows, at peace in the Elysian Fields. So Eurydice, you get it, is dead and courted by the God of the Infernos, Hades. Mighty powerful God. Orpheus is madly in love; he wants to free his ladylove. Guess what? Hades is obliged to hand her back because Orpheus…I really need to tell you more about my Gods…"

They hunt the dog. The werewolf must be tired and he has feasted. Thus he is digesting somewhere. To know what the dog is digesting makes him nauseous. Andreas is not a wimp, but the idea of someone digesting the gentle girl is gruelling. The Greek vampire feels himself sick at the thought. Vampires have feelings; they are cruel, true. Yet sometimes, they feel like humans, for most of the time mercifully they care for one of their own. And certainly there is a long strong affection between the sire and the newly made vampire; like a father for his son. His Viking son's affections have been seriously wounded; whoever wronged his vampiric son will pay! He did not care much for the human lover his child chose as his bride. A human for Pluto sake! A human he was learning to respect for she was not a liar. Two qualities which are never boding good when they are associated. She had to die. Well, she is dead. He does not regret her; if the Gospels are right, she is very far from Purgatory. What real sins has she committed? None. The door must have taken her directly to the shimmering Lights. Poor Sigmund. Human she was above his touch; dead, she is forever unreachable. Courageous son. He sees the heavy eyes, the tears which do not run the clenched jaws. He hears the silent howls which are kept under control behind the tightly closed lips. It will take ages before the Viking smiles again if ever. He will have to be as light as the wings of Athenian Honeybees. He has to avenge his grieving child.

- "Any how, the Gods. You have to understand, accept. The Gods, they always win at the end. Orpheus went to Hell, got the lady back and just before crossing the threshold…The God made her look back and she was forever Hades slave. Orpheus despaired etc etc but even the Master of the Gods could not free her. He was Hades brother, but Eurydice was to belong to Hades. Morality: Gods are Bastards and Love is useless. Count yourself lucky to have met her, count your losses and let's kill that dog"

Gods, God all the same. They have taken her from him. She is lost, he knew that the moment he found her body. They have stolen her from him. They are going to pay. The pain is the same, it still crushes his chest; it still hurts as bad. Now there is something else; there is this rage at the Gods and whoever is responsible for her death. The dog, the priest, all those liars. He is going to kill them all; the water of the spring is going to turn red for a long, long time. If she was there, he would kill her too; because of the pain her death has inflicted. She was not supposed to die. She was supposed to stay with him, forever young. They will suffer, all of them. He is going to be vicious; he is going to tear their throats apart…He is going to do all what is in his power to numb the pain. As long as it takes to forget her or to learn to live with the pain. He will never forget her and the pain will never go away. Never will he find again his lady; he loves her and he has lost the love of his long eternal life.

The meadow blood bath has been cleared. The priest and the villagers have come and collect what could be collected. Tomorrow the lady will be allowed to rest. The priest is praying for her gentle soul. God and His Mother will be merciful. She has not sinned as far as he knows. Though compromised, she has saved her soul and walked willingly to the chapel like a martyr of the old pagan days. The werewolf has been waiting for her, killing her thus saving her soul. If she had stayed longer alive, he does not doubt the vampires would have convinced her to become one of them. Now, she is saved. The fact she is dead is irrelevant. He is not afraid of the vampires; he is quite happy to taunt them. So what if he dies, God's will is to be done. Humans to purgatory; Vampires to hell and Satan!

The human is running as fast as he can. He will have to stop, he is so tired. He is like a frightened hare. The Vikings have smelled his scent. The North men are angry at him; the vampires are going for the kill. They do not like his kin; they do not like to see a human prey fall out of their reach. They are angrier when a human designated to be welcomed among them is stolen. He knows he has committed a capital crime in terms of supernatural and human. He has stolen the property of a feudal lord, a Norseman and he has killed a human. The priest has told him it was the price to pay his own salvation; to lift the curse of his own soul, he had to save the soul "at whatever cost", the soul of the young lass. The serf has killed the lady of noble lineage; the werewolf has killed an innocent human life. The vampires are going to enact retribution of considerable amplitude; the priest will pay too. The moon is no more full; he is but human and he hears the horses. The end is going to come quick. God, have mercy on his soul.

The meadow is clear. No trace of the incident which soiled it a few days ago. No trace of the villagers though. A fresh bouquet of lilies is resting on a freshly dug grave. The Church doors are open wide; yet no priest. There is blood in the altar; there is blood all over and dead bodies are littering the village humble streets. Those ages are dark and savage; most likely the villagers suffered the wrath of angry Vikings. Outside the village, a human has been crucified, though the real cause of his death is his throat ripped apart. There is a lot of blood running in the spring. All rivulets of blood do not reach the stream; some are swallowed, drunk by the ground. The blood goes deep inside ground, deep…deep. It congregates and gently drop by drop falls like a welcome rain on dry land on a very old thing. A very old skull that has been waiting for it for many, many moons. Nearby a headless body, old bones are shivering. The head muscles are getting fuller; the hands of the body crawl and dig the earth underground, toward the head. The tragedy has been useful. The creature has awakened…


	3. Chapter 3

1192AD

This chapter will offer more scope, we shall see Lauren, Lucy, Nancy and the older Josie and we shall add Carl, Ivan, Seth and Herrick for souls can be redeemed. Who is who is not important. Let me weave this tale. By the way, dada dada, all characters belong to TW, but the story teller...

And they left. They left and were no more seen. Not seen by the woman at the gate, not by the woman who was looking from the window, or the one who had given a fresh apple from her orchard. No more to be seen, heard or held by the woman who wept by her door or the one who ran after them for a last embrace. No more seen yet unforgotten by the woman who refused to watch them leave, preferring the solace of the Chapel. Praying at the feet of Marie, the Holy Mother. For his return. Safe.

After they left, they simply waited. By the drawbridge. That is what you do when the one you love goes for adventure; you wait till he returns. Because he has said so. I shall return, I will come back. The truth is blinding. He will return; you will wait till he returns. You do not care how long it takes. So they waited all six of them.

The old woman in the orchard, the apple picker for example had this one grandchild. Not the wisest, not the savviest. But the most gentle of soul. Her Thomas, her Tom was the last of her daughter brood. He was not as clever as his brothers and her mother had quite frankly enough on her hands than care for the dumb kid. The old woman needed company and was happy to raise Thomas. Thomas who dreamt of stars and looked up at the moon wondering if a rabbit lived on it. Simple Thomas who was so strong he could carry so many fruit baskets where even the blacksmith could only lift two… Thomas whose strength is going to be much needed where they are going…. She would wait. She was waiting, despite the months and the years…Tom had promised not to leave his old Gran alone and he would come back. "Gran, they say the stars, down there, they are different. That is why I will come back. To tell you if it is true." She knew her good boy was to come back and tell her. So she waited even if her face got more wrinkled and if she walked now with the help of two sticks.

She was waiting like the one who goes every day of the year to the Chapel of the Lilies. Even it is rains and it rains a lot in the county. If it snows and the snow is thick. If it is freezing cold, or so hot you wish you could remove a few clothes and your veil. Which would shame you certainly as only maidens can walk about, heads uncovered. Every single day of the year, she goes to the Chapel in the woods and she prays. Every day of every week of every month of every year. Even if every year which comes in twelve months divided by 52 weeks of seven days each, she prays and no one answers her prayer. But she does not care. She prays and she knows deep in her heart he will come back. Why did he have to go? They were making good money at the inn and his knowledge, his "touch" with the hops and the ensuing fresh beer was starting to get recognition bringing more customers. He wanted to go because I am not an innkeeper. I am but I am more than that; surely madam wife I have strength and courage. If I can fight off drunkards, I can fight "them" off. And he went away and she waits. She has kept on using the formula he devised and her inn is always full. She is rich for the times; she gives a lot to the Church; she would give her whole fortune away if he would come back. Hence she prays every day each and every year that comes. Because he is going to come back and bring new recipes for the inn kitchen. And she waits at the door to see if the road finally has stopped being deserted.

Another woman is waiting; they know each other. This one is stout as you need to be stout when your husband is engaged in that sort of trade. To help him some instruments, bring on wood, press on the bellows. Each village has a blacksmith or should have. Horses need him, soldiers need him, and farmers visit his trade. He is a universal man of peace and war. He had to go because they needed his skills. "Yes, that and the fact you are bored with me..." he had tried as best as he could for he was no troubadour to reassure her of his undying love. He loved her curves; she was the best of mate. She was able to with stand the nonsense of the ruffians. And she better, because he was going to come back and was expecting her to product accounts and monies from the time he was not there. The apprentice would help her; she had to care for their two young lads. It was sensible, she was sensible. She knew business, she was a merchant daughter. Opening his trade to others: cups, pewter...She let him go and pretended to smile and wave him away. Only their kids knew how painful had been their hands she grasped as they went away; only the boys did know she had rushed in the deserted smith room and wept by the silent anvil. Aye, he better come back. For if he forgot to return, she would go and drag him back by his short cropped hair if she had too. Meanwhile she waited and raised the children. The apprentice learnt the trade and she waited.

One who would not to have to wait to was the youngest of all. She was heavy with child when her lord left. A child bride. She had been married off and told of the wooing barely two weeks before the bells of the chapel sung the happy tale. Her lord needed an heir; his first wife had only given a girl and both had died. The Normand lord needed sorely, wanted absolutely an heir, a spare, possibly another son to win more lands for the family and a son to enter the Church, become an abbot or a bishop to allow more spiritual and political power always for the family. He had carefully chosen the right filly with the right dowry and the right in-laws. A young, hopefully fertile lass with only a barely older rich and single brother. All plans had worked wonderfully. The lass was comely and spirited. If she fell in love with him, he fell as hopelessly in love with her. His brother in law unable to join him, thanks to a bad fall at a boar hunt would keep an eye on his castle, his wife and young son. Because it was going to be a son. He had to come back to her, to their child. He was missing her and he had not yet mounted the war stallion. They did not need to talk. She knew her duty. Make sure their soon to be born son was safely sleeping in her loving arms, keep the castle in good order, teach her brother to mind his own lands and wait for her beloved lord to come back. He was going to come back with Eastern silks, gold, spices. He would allow a merchant to sell the goods on his behalf and with all the gold buy more lands for "their" family. Now if she could but stop believing he was going to fall into the honeyed trap of an exotic beauty, it would be great. If she but could remember he had pledged his heart but to her and her only. He had to come back, for who but a father could teach his son how to become a knight; Son, make it his sons; so please stop crying. She could not walk far; she started her wait at the castle postern.

If the lady was hiding from her husband as not to shame him with her tearful good bye, the wanton was not. The gipsy had become recently a villager. Her band of sinister denizens had stopped for a night selling a few gaudy items when her black velvet eyes had seen through the crowd the man her fortune telling had promised her. She saw through the veil of her long eyelashes, standing by the local lord and his pregnant lady (not a fool, the little lady; she had seen the ribbon was poor silk) her man. He did not know it; she knew it. She knew, as such it was enough. The younger man was his lord-sword bearer. Youngest son of a poor Saxon squire, he could not believe his luck that the mighty Normand lord had asked him to tag along and bear his standard. "Most respected Father I shall follow him. If I fight right, I may get a title, gain some lands. So what if my future bride may be Normand; Richard is my king. I'll become rich, restore our honour and for once and for all ask your eldest son to shut the fuck up because his only claim to glory is being born the first. Anybody can be an eldest child; I'll be the glorious one!". Bedding the beautiful Gypsy had not been a problem. Explaining to his family that the "whore" from their point of view was been as virtuous as his lord's wife until they had met was an inexpungible obstacle. He had been surprised the travelling wench was actually a true blushing virgin. She had always loved him; even before they met. The cards had told her she would love a man in chains; here he was in his iron chain dress! The blond long hair man with the smiling blue eyes had noticed the dark hair beauty following him. Before long, she was his willing bed partner. All was fine. She loved him. He did not love her. At all. No, it was simply lust. Just lust. Well, he cared for her. A little bit; a lot. His mother raised her eyes to the ceiling when he asked her to lodge the wench. His father raised thunder when he was told he would marry his girl when he was back from where they were going to travel to. The gypsy would wait, would stop travelling. Of all people, the gypsy would be faithful and wait. She would wait because it was real love at first sight. Even she had to die for it, her love was written in the stars, forever. She would always love him. He loved her, He did not know why. He just knew. She would wait; he would return.

Will he return? He has to. His lord and his lady count on his skills. When his lord first born, who is going to be a son, will be christen, there will be a big party going on at the castle. Wine, beer, cider and mead. Sweetbreads, a big roast, an ox in the chimney and pasties. Drinks around and food, food, food... Food cooked by a cook. Me. Him. The most skilled of cooks, the duke of the roasting pans, the master of the toastees. Sweet almond milk, syllabubs and blancmange. Honeyed sauces. All made by and through his hands and directions. If his lord is the lord of the castle, he is the lord of the kitchen. The innkeeper presents his beer hoping to be chosen, the blacksmith repairs his tools of the trade and the old woman offers the products of her orchard. That is how they met. She was with her worthy father, a wise farmer who knew how to offer the finest flour of the finest wheat grain. The cook bought the flour as there was not enough given by the peasants as they should give to their lord. The year had been poor. For Farmer John, it had been so so. Only so so. The daughter had come along with her father. That is how they met. The cook was burly, verging a minor paunch and was sporting a little bald patch. No dashing hero there. Her nose was upturned, she had freckles and she was called a pert red head! But he was nice and she loved him. But she was...well...nice and he loved her to bits. If their lord did the dashing and their lady did the feisty, they were doing the daily chores of loving. Her hand tickled his cheeks; his hands covered in flour met her waist. They were happy; they did not care for glory. Until...Until Richard cursed was his name...

Richard, son of Henry though not as bright; Richard son of Alienor about as proud had decided to join the Crusade. The English were going to show to the French neighbours they could fight better. The lord was going to get richer, the equerry was going to become a lord himself, the innkeeper was going to show he was not only a bourgeois but had the blood to become a Squire, the blacksmith was going to get rich and establish his savoir-faire all over England as the best sword-smith, Simple Tom was going to watch the stars of Palestine and the castle cook was going to become the King's servant and who knew afterwards...

Six men with ambition. Six men planning to better their lives, planning to come back and show their dear ladies, their sweet other halves, those said ladies were right to believe in them. They would all come back; all was needed was trust. They would come back; the ladies would wait. They simply had to wait for God sake. Wait!

The lady would deliver a bouncy boy, the mistress of the inn, the overseer of the smith would look after their trade. Old Gran would carry on pruning her trees and train the gypsy to earn her livelihood by weaving wool clothes. She would care for the child bride and be the castle housemaid, chambermaid, kitchen maid. The maid.

Six men gone, six women waiting. Simple maths. Wait till their .

There is a first. There is always a first. You cannot have a second without a first. The first one to stop waiting was the large bellied woman. Though when she stopped waiting she was not large anymore. For the gentle lady despite her maid ministrations, Old Gran garden plants, the good mead from the inn, the potions poured in the cups made by the blacksmith who doubled up as a general store, and the prayers of the heathen; for the gentle lady died. Barely the time to deliver a boy who died a few instants later safely ensconced in his mother arms and the child mother closed for ever her eyes. No more would she wait at the postern. The second one to stop waiting was unlike the first one expected. Old Gran grew too old. One day the gypsy who had been thrown away, rejected from her Lover parental home found the old woman forever asleep. The gypsy who had been kindly welcomed by Tom Grandmother had learned to love her like the mother she never had. From now on, she was the gardener, the midwife, the herbs collector. From now on, the solitary woman who waited for her blond soldier was known, behind her back as the witch...

Later, much later they all stopped waiting about the same time; the gypsy, the innkeeper and the blacksmith lady, they all died but within days. The first was the innkeeper, the rumoured rich, the filthy rich mistress of the Inn. Ruffians had heard of the wealthy widow. One night, a group of thieves attacked the inn. The burglars were surprised the money chest was empty.

Where was the money? Where did the bitch bury her treasure? "All the money is going to the Abbey. For every day, I pray for my dear husband safe return from Palestine. The money is for the hospice, the poor, the hospital. For charity..." The woman was mad; Richard had been back since...since ... and John Lackland finally with land and a crown was also dead. Henry was a full grown man. And the innkeeper still believed in the safe return of the crusaders. The fool. She was quickly dispatched by the angry ruffians denied of the rich loot. The innkeeper had stopped waiting at the door of her inn.

For her soul, she went praying. Her friend, the stout blacksmith widow who had raised her two strong sons alone, who was overseeing the smith trade with the same iron hand as strong as her iron proverbial swords went praying to the chapel. Our Lady chapel. The old chapel in the wood. Our Lady of the lilies. There she stopped waiting. For finally after four hundred years, the body and the skull head had finally met.

Finally after eight hundred years of draught as fierce as the sand storms of his native Egypt, after four hundred years of erring in the corridors of Thebes temples except it was underground in that cursed Britain, his body and his head were one and one again. It had taken a blood bath, a real pool of blood to be re-united. Blood enough to fill the Sacred Lakes of the temples to give life and strength; to overcome the madness brought by being a live spirit imprisoned in a skull. Slowly the vampire had crawled back out of his grave. He was thirsty. Thirst and in pain. For the first blood, the blood that had saved him from this prison was Hildegard blood. Blood through which rich love flowed. The love re-ignited his memory, all his memories. Including the ones he had tried so hard to forget, the memory he had managed to forget. Cursed be the Briton werewolf and his sword. Now he remembered everything and it was hurting like Hell. He had to find out where and when he was. Drinking fresh blood was going to jolt those offensive memories.

The old lady never saw his fangs, for her eyes were not as sharp as in her youth. She only saw a shadow and fell. Her two sons were loving sons and they howled when they saw the gap in her neck and her body drained of blood. The two smiths strong and tall wept like children for no more their indomitable mother would hold their hands and teach them right from wrong. No more Alan the young would hold his mother hand while Hugh the elder would wave good bye to their father. It was their only memory with their parents together. Mum had always believed Dad would come back. The old mistress would meet their dad; they did not fear for her. Fear their wrath, rather. For the two blacksmith brothers had been wronged. Their sweet mother had been killed. They wanted vengeance.

The gypsy, the witch was known to go to the woods. Lately, she was seen running scared dishevelled from the woods, mentioning a monster. Aye, the woman was a witch. She had had intercourse with the Devil. The gypsy had escaped the weak vampire and ran from him. Terrified she had locked herself in her house. She had not been able to protect her friend who she met as she also wanted to pray for the innkeeper soul. She had failed her friend.

Two old women walking. The thirsty vampire had jumped on the elderly almost blind woman. The other woman let her veil fall on the ground. Blood had been good. He started looking in the bloodied body clothes, picked up her purse and realized how many centuries had lapsed since his beheading. Then he remembered all and ran deep in the forest. If Hildegard blood was rich in love for Sigmund, the blacksmith blood was richer in love emotions. For she had led a long life, loving her missing spouse. The Egyptian vampire had been cursed again and again. Now he remembered it all and the whys and the hows. It was Hell. It had taken him twelve hundred years to become an animal only driven by cunning and bloodlust. He was again human and it hurt. Would it take again twelve hundred years to be free from his past? And the lost twelve hundred years under ground did nor count!

The soldiers arrested the gypsy, her trial was quick. Evidence was proven with the was a witch and she was to be drowned in the river, which was near the chapel. It was proven that she was jealous of the innkeeper and bore ill will to the old black smith widow. She knew plants, she had been taught by Old Gran who also must have been a witch. As for Simple Tom he was probably an imp for he spoke of stars! Moon and stars. Devilry all that! The old maid saw it all. The old maid saw her friend by judged without care, honesty or fairness. Before the execution, that night, she silently went to the witch house. What was left of the house as the disgruntled villagers had burnt it down. Her aim was not the house, but the garden. She picked up the flowers once designated in a time where all believed they would come back safe and sound together. Foxgloves. Once picked up, she ran to the castle kitchen as fast as her sore legs allowed. No monster would have stood a chance against her for she was doing the Right thing. She crushed the plants, proceeded from memory, poured the liquid in a vial and headed toward the gypsy cell. The soldiers let her go for she wanted to know if the gypsy had cursed her sweet lady and her lord son. The soldiers did not see the vial being exchanged. They saw the angry faithful retainer wanting justice and the gypsy bemoaning of fate and destiny. They knew the gypsy wept, the sinner, after the departure of the faithful maid. They never learnt the maid cried bitterly the rest of the night as she prayed for her friend soul. The gypsy body was thrown in the river as it had been planned. The villagers were satisfied though drowning a dead body was less fun.

Now she was alone waiting. Gone were the gentle young lady and her noble baby, gone Old Gran, gone the three friends, the sarcastic inn keeper, the ruthless blacksmith widow and the gypsy with the velvet skin. All had stopped waiting. At the postern, by the orchard door, by the inn gate, on the road, in front of the open smith entrance. Only she, was keeping her silent, lonely wait. She was waiting, looking at the empty road by the window of the tower. That is where they found her body one winter afternoon. The dear old thing must have fallen in the stairs. At her age, she still had wanted to climb the steep stairs. Sad, aint'it! Now nobody was waiting. Not even the vampire for he had run away and his story is different and I will tell you later about him. Today my tale is about those six women, those six waiting women. Waiting for six men, waiting for six men who were honour bound to return. Who have promised they would come back. Who would because those men were true to their words.

Memories of Charles Atwooder, 9th baron of Drislon, 6th Earl Tostham

"As I grew up, I would spend some part of the school holidays at my grandmother dower house. Drislon dower house has a lovely Tudor garden built on the remains of the old Norman Castle. My brothers and I have had many jolly good games in those gardens. In the 18th century, some ancestor of mine had the good idea to keep some ruins and we used to play pretending we were knights and other childish harmless fun. Those ruins were rumoured to be haunted. I state categorically they are not. I mean there are indeed shadows, but those are harmless. I have never seen a ghost in my all life"

Memories of Lavinia Atwooder, Lady Coper-Moyes

"As a child and only daughter, I often spent days and weeks with my beloved grandmother. My parents' interests were on their sons: my brothers Charles Earl Tostham, George, Admiral Atwooder and Wilfred Bishop Atwooder for Grimgate Cathedral. As a girl, my obligations were limited. My grandmother was happy to give me the care my parents had not the time to give. The gardens were extensive. I played there days and days... I never was bothered by them, the ladies. The six ladies. The famous six lady ghosts of Drislon house. They haunt the ruins of the old Norman Castle. The six of them. They are all at different places, they stand still, they are not angry or mean. They all have a sad smile, the wistful smile of somebody who has been waiting for so, so long..."

So long. They were waiting. When the scimitar entered his left side, he was surprised. He carried on fighting. And was even more surprised his adversary had stopped paying attention to him. Nobody was paying attention. His standard bearer, his faithful equerry fought along him and he could not help. He saw the young man being transfixed by the Saracen sword through his back and fall. And rise again. That was when both realized what had happen. The battle kept on raging and others like them met them. At first they fought against each others, but realized quickly how stupid it was. For they were doors for the others but not for them. The Normand lord and his Saxon sword-bearer were now dead, now ghosts, now door less. Where they should go, they could not. Were they going to have to haunt a battlefield in Palestine; never to rest, never to hold again their dear ladies in their manly arms?

The two warriors rubbed their stubbles and decided to find out what was the fate of the rest of their small troop. Simple Simon had simply vanished. Not to be seen again. Yet he had been one of the first casualties of the battle. They knew; they had found his body. Had Simon been luckier than them? Had Simon gone to Purgatory? For the Final Judgment day had not yet come. They went looking for the remaining trio. They could not find any of them. But they were able to leave the battlefield. They became errand knights, errand knights ghosts. They were the friendly shadow who brought fear to the evil men intended on evil night deeds. They went to Jaffa to see the crusades off; but their friends they did not see. They wanted to board the ship; they were ready to go back to Britain. They could not. They learnt of the ways of the supernatural world. They were seen by werewolves; luckily for the human wolves their swords were also ghosts. They were seen by vampires, who could not understand why they were errands and could not be destroyed as they had no abode. They met other ghosts and learnt of their fate. Six went to Palestine; six would have to come back from Palestine. The two ghosts had to find their four missing brothers in arms. Meanwhile, the Red Cross painted on their shirt proclaimed them ghostly crusaders and warded off any vampire fool enough to come near them. Where was Simple Tom, the friendly innkeeper, the wise blacksmith and the cook?

They went east, following the trade routes. It was a wise choice as they found only a century later in Samarkand bazaar the innkeeper. Just as them, he was still young and still dressed as a soldier with his iron chain coat and the Red Cross painted in his top shirt. Which was a surprise for him as he had died some years later as a slave in Persia? Being young again made him feel better, for his human life, after he had been taken prisoner and sold, had been a nightmare. The trio carried on East; again it was wise as again a century later they found in Cipango the blacksmith. Just as young as them. The Chinese vampires, flying or not were fearful of the intrepid ghosts. Their clothes might be outdated; their swords were not. In what would be known later as Japan, they approved of the Bushido code of warrior. Very honourable it was. And it was that following the way of the samurais, they found the smith! Busy learning how the Asian warriors were making their swords! He too had badly suffered for he had been sold in slavery and ...reduced to...be shortened... in some of his parts...the four ghosts winced in sympathy. Now that he had been found...were his...parts ...together again? What about ghosts when they were...eunuchs? Were they condemned to haunt until they found the missing haunting bits? Were they all obliged to be haunting the rest of the world, unable to go back home because the stupid oiky smith was...incomplete? That was sure a message to anyone fools enough to make swords. The Lord disapproved of weapons! While the other ghosts were debating of his incomplete anatomy and watching how Japanese smiths made katanas, the poor eunuch quickly checked if...Once reassured on his entire entirety, he informed the group they had reached the east of the east. If they wanted to go home, they would have to go west.

West they went. This was good as Columbus had discovered the Americas and a Queen (a woman? Like Queen Emma? Better?) was now reigning over England. This choice to travel west was rewarded for they found the cook in Mexico. Why? Why in Mexico? The cook ghost had the grace to blush... Spices... Tomatoes, potatoes, chilli, peppers, avocados, cocoa. A long life as a cook though a slave had taught him all he needed to know about Eastern spices. Where did he die? In Spain as a cook for the Caliph at the Alhambra palace. He died exactly on the 12th of July 1269. A very old man. Almost one hundred years of age...He was so old...and so young when he discovered he had become a ghost. Young again! He travelled Europe, but for Britain naturally, north and south. To end up with the Reconquista and Cortes and his soldiers. Aye, he had been in the thick of it. They had travelled east and seen wonders; he travelled west and saw so much gold...

America was unchartered territory. Aside of vampires and werewolves what could be wrong? Vampires and werewolves did live in the Americas under different names naturally. They went up north; very north. The Eskimos may have a legend of five ironclad men with a red cross on their chest; they went south. They went to Hawaii and New Zealand. They were not the oldest of ghosts, they were the most travelled! They looked all over Earth, they could not find Thomas. Simple Tom the daydreamer, the boy who dreamt of stars was nowhere to be seen.

There was naturally the thing they did not like to discuss. The death of their dear ladies, the deaths of their children. The lord learnt going through a British Embassy library that his castle had been taken over by his brother in law. The young man has inherited his castle and his land after his sister death as next of kin. Which meant his dear beloved bride was dead, and his child too. The soldier, the innkeeper and the blacksmith learnt of their beloved fate in the "History of British Witchcraft" in New York Library. Drowned, murdered by thieves, her gentle throat ripped open (smacks of vampire, old chap!). Only "Haunted Britain" consoled them as the notorious six ladies of Drislon House were mentioned!

More centuries had passed. They learnt all the powers worth knowing in the ghosts' world. Auras, rent-a-ghosting, all, they knew all. Five frustrated young ghost men in crusade attire.

The young ghosts, the younger made ghosts avoided to make fun at them. Old they were, but young enough to teach the young rascals a lesson or two... They were there at every new event. But for Britain. Britain was off limits. Hot air balloons, trains crossing the wide American expanse. Planes. Television. You name it; there were here always looking for Thomas. Nowhere to be seen.

That night of July 1969, just like everybody in the planet. They were watching; watching.

"That's the day I died!"

"Great, but I doubt humanity will remember it. On the other hand, today, they will"

"Today, just for today why can't we drink mead?"

"It is fascinating. Think how humanity has progressed over the last seven hundred years!"

"I...Look, guys! Behind Armstrong, look who is coming! I can't believe it!"

The room was suddenly emptied of its ghostly inhabitants. The live ones did only remark the air was warmer. And carried on watching the telly. The five ghosts were not sure whether rent-a-ghosting up there would be working. It was worth a try. If they failed, they knew exactly where to go when he would come back. If he did. Otherwise they would wait for the next transport. It worked.

"Tom! Thomas! Moron! Idiot! Country bumpkin!"

"What were you doing?"

In life, there is tragedy and there is comedy. It is the same in the afterlife. Or just like in the movies. You have the melodramatic Casablanca playing next to A night in Casablanca, courtesy of the Marx Brothers. By now the ghosts were six again. Five of them were quite angry at the sixth one.

"Do you realize we have been looking for you all over since more than seven hundred years?"

"Why didn't you look for us...when you realized you were a ghost? You realized you are dead, we hope!"

"At least, we can go home!"

"I just wanted to see the Moon!"

The five knights, in full crusading attire, circled the sixth one. Too bad it never showed on telly. Neil Armstrong was proceeding giving his speech on steps for Man and Humanity. The Moon sand ghostly sand was trampled by six ghosts from the Middle Ages behaving like Harpo, unless it was Groucho or was it Chico? Tom wanted to see a bit more of the Moon.

"How are we going to go back to Earth?"

"With them? I mean the rocket thing?"

"We rented-a-ghost one way, we rent-a-ghost with our return ticket back home. Back real home. No, Thomas; we do not wait till humans travel outside the solar system!"

Crielfordshire Police Report.

Night of the 12th of July 1969. PC Hibbott received a call that some lights were showing among the ruins of Drislon House gardens. PC Hibbott cycled to the site and saw nothing. No miscreant. We have reason to believe some young lads tried some fireworks as to mark the occasion of the first man landing on the moon. No harm done.

The six ladies were waiting as usual at the same place. The maid saw them first as she could see high from the tower window. She ran to inform her mistress at the postern. The two women then walked slowly to the drawbridge. They waved and called the other ladies to come and join them. The proud black haired gypsy was walking slowly with Old Gran whose hip was not getting any younger these days. The innkeeper was carrying some fresh mead in a basket as she knew they would be thirsty, as for the black smith wife, she brought her best pewter cups. The maid was making her lady comfortable as his Lord young lusty heir was sleeping safe and sound in his mother arms. They were home. Finally home. The wait was over. They had come home. The lord lifted his wife and heir to sit on the stallion; the equerry knelt in front of the gypsy and asked her to marry him for war had taught him to disdain pride. Simple Thomas told his Gran of his adventures, the Blacksmith didn't tell everything (a man has his dignity); the Innkeeper admitted he was glad to be home and promised never to travel again. As for the cook, he told the maid he was quite sure his talents were going to be needed. Cooks are always needed!

Six men, six women. Twelve ghosts. No door. No door still... no door yet. Then the light appeared; a bright shiny shimmering light. And they knew; they all knew the time, the right time had come. They all crossed the drawbridge, couple by couple. Happy without fear, entering the light at the end of the drawbridge. And slowly, after the last ghostly couple had entered the light, the pont-levis lifted and closed. The light disappeared and so did the ghostly castle.

2011, July 24th

"And that is the end of our tour of Drislon House. Do you have any question?"

"The ghosts.."

"Yes the ghosts?"

"Where are they?"

"Are they still seen?"

"Yes. No. There is clearly a history of ghosts. The actual Earl has seen them when he was a young child. He is the last one to have seen the six ladies."

"Ghosts do not disappear!"

"No, they don't...because they don't exist!"

"On the same day Neil Armstrong, you know, the US Astronaut walked on the moon...there were fireworks in the gardens and since, the ghosts have gone"

"Poor ghosts..."

"Frightened by fireworks..."

"Yes, and they re-appear for bonfire night. For God sake. Ghosts?"

Some stories have happy if belated endings. Some wish for an ending. Any ending. The twelve ghosts are now in peace. What about the vampire...


	4. Chapter 4

1684AD

BH characters belong to Toby Whithouse. The web into the following characters are glued like moths to be digested by a spider is mine...Enjoy

In the previous chapters, the storyteller has taken the readers in days where men fought glorious battles and did wondrous things. Rome invasion of Britain, Viking York and the perfumes of Orient despite the clash of the Crusades. Wondrous days indeed. A noble warrior fighting against the curse of the wolf, a gentle lady ready to die to redeem the soul of her vampire lover and the silence of ghostly vigils. All honourable supernaturals methinks. Allow this weaver of tales to take you into one of those boring intermediary periods. Do not worry as History is always in making. One question must be answered: are all supernaturals good? No, naturally not. Indeed, humanity is right to protect itself! Kemp was evil on his last days and Lucy missed the plot. Yet both were right to protect Men. Cessna was devious yet ask to yourself: was Van Hesling wrong about Dracula? No, indeed not at all wrong. My tale will take you, if you wish it to a time where things had happen and would happen. Where heroes must be unsung.

A time when humanity started to ask the essential question as what if?

This time, the curtain opens after the battle was won.

They could not be more different. The blond soldier and his Hungarian brother of arm. Well, Hungarian of some sort as the French aristocrat was loath to speak his friend native language. If one was full of joy, the other was stern. Yet the two men had bonded.

It was the day where the very Christian King, the Sun King as his courtiers called him, showing a forest of bent backs to his jaded eyes, Louis the Great was just being a hypocrite. Pretending to feel for the woes of his Austrian cousin and the menaced capital while secretly discussing with the Sublime Porte, siege of the Great Vizier power. The Divan had received the French envoys and the Sultan had promised to allow the French Navy to travel unharmed by her faithful Algiers pirates. The price was simple: allow the Turks to establish a Caliphate in Eastern Europe. In Vienna.

The French would rule on Western Europe as the Spaniards and the Portuguese were too indolent. The Turks would conquer Austria. But it did not happen. The revolution was cancelled. The Poles had rushed to the rescue of Vienna, Catholics and Protestants alike from the whole Holy German Saint-Empire had flocked the beleaguered capital. Even a Prince of the Blood, Louis Armand de Bourbon, Prince of Conti, Louis's own cousin, Louis's son in laws for he had married one of the king numerous illegitimate daughters had gone to fight the good fight in Vienna. Followed by some ferocious young men of his liking. That is how they met.

On one side the very legitimate son of a Protestant baron, vivacious, ironic, loving women like they were a rarity in his native land. A tall blond blue eyed aristocrat with a thin blond moustache, a fine dancer who knew how to lead a deadly dance with his sword, always ready for wine, wenches and a laugh and him. The illegitimate nephew of dubious parentage. As tall if not taller endowed by dark locks and with eyes of that new exotic wood mahogany. A slightly stocky young blade and a severe soldier. What a contrast! Yet they had bonded. The Hungarian was as Catholic as his Friend was sadly a heretic. In those days, it was not doing to befriend outside the battlefield one of those lost souls, those misguided miscreants who did not harbour love for the Roman Pope. Yet they had bonded, the brothers in arms. The Hungarian was a bastard; his mother had given him birth a full year after wearing the black laces befitting a widow of noble rank. Yet, her brother-in-law the Horthy Prior of Selimbar and Plogojowitz had accepted to become the guardian of the child after her death. Astonishingly, he had allowed the child to be given his late brother first names. Arpad Wolfgang Matthias Selimbar was given a roof, education and love by a man who should have known better than care for the shameful mongrel. Matthias loved his uncle as the father he never knew. The Prior insisted that the bastard was treated as his rightful nephew. Prague aristocrats shook their heads and muttered about early senility, carrying Christian forgiveness a tad too far. The bastard was educated as any young blood of the time. He learned to read, write, fence, shoot, and hunt. He was not taught dancing: no minuet no gigue, canary or saraband for the orphan. In those days, if a man did not know how to show a good calf, a neat ankle and present his lady his hand at the right instant; his failure in the ballroom led to an unsuccessful career in the Royal Court. The bastard counted himself lucky to be educated if sadly missing in the deportment of a born courtier.

Imagine a raven and a colourful parakeet. Yet they had bonded. They had fought like lions, side by side against the Turks. The raven sword had saved the parakeet life; the parakeet musket had saved the raven. For they became real brothers. The battle was over, Vienna was saved and Louis' son in law was reading his ears for a long lecture from the master of Versailles. Avery long lecture on not interfering in politics!

Young Armand Henri his namesake was coming back to his grandfather ancestral home. His cheek sported a long scar but he was alive. Matthias had nowhere to go for his kind uncle was dead. Armand could not leave his friend. Doing nothing was unheard off. A Calmet de Fresnoy! To forfeit his friend. Never! Just like in the battle letting the Furia Francese seized him, Armand seized Matthias hands;

"Come with me. My castle is far from Versailles and its intrigues. Louis has made it an obligation to have a Catholic parish in every village; even the ones like mine where the Lord is protestant. Pff. You shall have a priest to confess your sins; though aside the killing of those cursed Turks, you must not have sinned a lot. You are quite shy with those Viennese wenches and you have not set foot in the brothels"

"My dear Armand let me remind you that my guardian was a man of the church. As such, I have been taught to keep a tight rein on my sinful appetites"

"Pff... come my friend. I know you have no friend here aside your humble servant. Grandpere is a right one. He will be delighted to see young faces. Since our parents died, all he has is me...here and Angelique. Angélique Julie Jeanne de Calmet de Fresnoy, my sister, my twin. She's a right one too. She had learned to fence, imagine! And she shoots well. Most useful; in winters we have wolves in our forests. She rides like the devil. If she was not a woman, she would have come with us. What a shame! She has missed all the fun! Come!"

Matthias relented. His protector was dead. There was nobody now to accept his mother had been a virtuous if misguided wife. For indeed, his guardian had been his uncle. His mother had indeed given a son to her late husband, a very late husband. Erzbeth, unable to provide a son to her beloved husband when he was alive had not denied her bed more than she had denied her blood to the vampire who had been alive her wedded spouse. The vampire fed on her veins; the man loved his wife. Those things are rare but they happen. Virgil and Apulius, not to mention Lucian and Petronus mention vampires and we know from Eurypides unless it is in Aristophanes that vampires ,male and female alike beget children from their human lovers. Matthias was born a year after his father died. His mother was unable to withstand the added blood loss due to the birth. Her vampiric husband fed on her and believed in her doctor. In those days, the excellence of cupping to fight off the moodiness of pregnancy was not disputed. The vampire fed more, drank more blood thinking he was doing the right thing. Matthias survived his parents madness, Erzbeth died in childbirth, her vampiric husband, driven to despair to have lost his soul and his dear half begged his young brother , Prior of the Abbey of Selimbar to stake him. The priest had no choice. Because he loved his brother, he killed him. The Prior would have gladly followed the fate of his brother and sister if Matthias had not reminded him of his duty. Cain had killed Abel or rather Abel had killed Cain. Cain had to live after the crime and the Prior carried on living. Loving the nephew God or the Devil had given him. Matthias was raised by a loving if worried uncle. Would the child become a blood sucker?

Old books and antique manuscripts found their way to the abbey. Matthias was a boy... Good and he had no problem becoming a good Christian. Mirrors show the child growing, his teeth were normal . If he was strong, it was not supernaturally so! His nephew though born from a vampire was totally human and normal. Then it happened.

As his uncle and the young lanky lad were travelling to the abbey of Plogojowitz for the Prior was responsible for both, they had to stop their coach in an inn. The prior in his religious robe and the already tall young man walked into the room heading for the warm chimney as it was winter and the trip through the forest had left them damp and cold. The young man looked at the assembly of drinkers and customers, smiled at mine host the innkeeper, asked for "some fresh light beer , warm soup and some cheese if you please". He was still smiling as he warmed up his hands to the flames and picked up a wood stick. Turning his back from the tables, he pulled out of his pocket a penknife and to his uncle surprise quickly produced a stick, a very pointed wood stick. He winked at his uncle whilst still smiling. And smiling he walked slowly, unperturbed among the inn clients.

"Apologies to you, mine host. Could we have some bread thank you"

The innkeeper put some bread in a plate and set said plate on the counter. The child, but he was naught but a child yet signalled him to come closer.

"What is the name of your servant?"

"The wench name is Katya, she is new but comely. Would your good uncle approve of this conversation?"

Matthias winked at him. The whelp was tall, no shadow darkened his upper lip. But he was bordering manhood. If he wanted to become a "real" man with the inn new maid why not! The jet black hair woman had noticed the very young man; she had noticed that he had looked a lot at her. A lot. The rest of the customers had not. The aristocratic child was good looking; the priest, blast him was too close. The priest had been consigned to stay near the chimney; good priest!

The woman walked toward Matthias, her long hair falling free in her back. She had opened a bit her shirt, showing the beginning of a pair of lovely breasts which she knew got all the nearby males attention. The lad was also looking at her chest. She wondered if she was his first. Good for she was going to be his first. She came as close to him as she could without having the lad face kissing her ample bosom. The prior was furious. What was doing this servant? She was literally offering to his nephew a pair of... of...The child was not a man yet. Well he was...but he was not. Not yet. He was not yet ready to be a man. And the wench was flaunting her advantages in the most wantonly manners. Was she planning to...to rape his nephew? Here? In the room?

Then it happened all at once. Later the innkeeper would say that he always had held doubts about the woman and the drinkers who saw nothing, would say they saw everything. The prior would say than being born from a vampire has its disadvantages as being called a bastard; the advantage being that you are able to know and see a blood fiend for what he is. For the child of a vampire is able to recognize a vampire. The blood suckers walk among us, safe in the knowledge we do not "see" them; such is not the case of their human children. For the child of a vampire is a merciless slayer of vampires. His dear nephew was...The female vampire thought that tonight she was going to have a delicious meal: a young human male innocence served with fresh blood. The stake which was viciously and very manly planted in her chest by the smiling Matthias told her how mistaken she was. This was not a prey, the child was a true Dhampyr. The few seconds spent till she turned to ashes were bitter for her.

Matthias was a dhampyr, a dampir. Well, it could have been a lot worse. Nephew and uncle prayed and thanked sincerely the Lord for this happy ending. Through the abbey, the young man was informed of suspicious cases of vampirism. Travelled and staked accordingly. His only protection was his uncle cross around his neck and a cunning device. A crossbow armed with small yet cruel wooden stakes. He started wearing black as he felt he had to pay respect to the souls of the vampires he dispatched. Then the Turks came, burned down the two abbeys and killed his uncle. Vampires were forgotten. A much bigger enemy was profiling in the horizon. Vampires would have to wait.

The Turks left. The European troops had to leave. Nothing was holding back the stern young man. He followed his merry friend. Despite being explained countless times, Armand did not believe in vampires. Vampires? What next? Ghosts? Werewolves? The number of times the blond Frenchman played with the willing inn wenches pretending to a vampire is not known. Yet his victims were very much alive when he left them. Love bites yes but Blood no way. Their virtue was in serious danger, but not their lives. Matthias sighed and prayed. Matthias was no innocent anymore. Yet courting females like that was not his taste. He was looking for a woman of...refinement. A woman who would overlook the fact he was a bastard begotten from a monster. If dhampyrs are rare, such a diamond of a woman was rarer...

They finally reached Armand castle. The priest was happy to know the old baron grand son and heir had befriended a catholic. Much hope was stored that finally, long last the Calmet de Fresnoy would submit to the royal iron will of a French kingdom only inhabited by Catholics! The Hungarian noble was the nephew of a late Prior so much the better! Now if God but put his finger in and soon enough the church bell would be ringing for the wedding of the noble Matthias Selimbar won Plogojowitz and the most noble Angelique de Calmet. The little chubby priest was satisfied of the way events were turning. Armand grandfather welcomed politely his grandson friend. When he was told of Matthias particularity, contrary to his happy go lucky grandson, the old man did not laugh. The old eyes looked at wearily the young man. Matthias faced the searching gaze without fear. The old man was not a fool. The baron signalled the approval of his heir friend by signalling expressly to have his granddaughter to attend the late comers for it was now almost midnight.

Angelique loved dearly her brother and her grandfather. She was happy to get up in the middle of the night to run to the arms of her dear, dear brother. She ran to kiss him and gasped at her brother long scar. Any man who had saved her brother life was her friend. Except she could not befriend the man who had smiled because in her dash to welcome Armand, she had ran barefooted, her brown ringlets in a sad mess. She could not befriend any man who was able to see the curves of her body, showing like shadows, drawing her body as she stood in her long white night shirt, her back to the fire of the front hall tall chimney. Matthias had dared to smile approvingly of things any well educated; any Versailles courtier would have pretended not to see.

"Have I wronged your sister, Armand? Mademoiselle de Calmet seemed angry at me as she returned to her apartment."

"Women, Matthias. I have no clue as she has taken a pet against you. Probably tomorrow, all will be forgotten"

The following days did not abate the girl disdain. The men went hunting; wolves had been noticed and the aristocrats did their best to help their people from the predators. Angelique went hunting with them, a gallant hat with ostrich feathers on her chestnut ringlets. The twins evidently took after each of their parents. Armand has inherited his mother blond hair; Angelique was taking after their father. They were as different as can be but for the same pair of mischievous blue eyes. The girl blue eyes were as cold as ice when they rested on her friend shoulders, face or anything. Matthias was unable to understand what he had done to deserve such murderous looks. Armand was ready to spank his sister for good. The only man who was keeping his wits about was the old baron.

Though old and admittedly provincial, the baron was far from stupid or un-educated. He knew what a dampir is. He knew some wolves are in human guise. Ghosts are not always friendly. Wolves...the old man was tired; he smiled to his grandchildren, but he was tired. He could not anymore ride. He saw the day where Armand would be the lord of the castle. Death did not frighten him. If he was afraid, it was on behalf on his granddaughter. Alive, he was able to fend off any suitor, any Catholic suitor all too happy to woo his only granddaughter and obey to Louis wish to only have courtiers of the same faith. If, heaven forbid Armand was to die, who would protect Angelique? Matthias on the one hand was a foreigner...and a Catholic! On the other side, he liked the young man. For all his vagaries, Armand knew how to judge a man. If Matthias was approved by his grandson, the baron approved of Matthias. What to do? A foreigner of noble birth; yet a bastard. A Catholic; approved by Armand. And the lass; who was behaving like a spoilt child!

A morning like any other morning, a wild eyed farmer came running and yelling bloody murder to the manor doors. The three men heard of the shepherdess body. A few minutes later the very same scene was enacted for their benefit this time by another farmer accompanied by the village priest. A young shepherd this time, killed also. Angelique joined the three men as a third mad-eyed woman carrying the remains of her daughter, buried her head in the mangled mass and asked for revenge.

"Angelique, please leave; this is not for you. This calls for men"

"Mademoiselle ...Angelique,...please. This scene is not for you"

"Child, stay by my side. It pleases me our people knows that all our family, both my grandchildren and their young friend are going to bring to Justice the monster who had killed three of my farmers"

The young men did not exactly approve the Baron decision to allow Angelique to ride by their side."You will be my eyes, child". The men looked with great care at the bodies. One had been mauled by a large wolf, like the last one. The second body was less bloodied. He was drained of blood with two simple marks on the neck; plus some large bites. But the bites were strange. And the body was easily one or two days older than the other two.

A large wolf was at large. Matthias wondered if Fate had not led him to help his friend more than anticipated. The old baron sighed. The next four weeks, more bodies accumulated. A wolf, a man wolf. Two wolves. Two humans. A wolf and a human. The bodies were ugly; yet not as badly as the first two. It was like a man pretending to be a wolf was killing. A man-wolf... and some bodies had the same curious neck marks.

The only benefit was that Angelique learnt to respect the rough rider Matthias was. Angelique and her gallant hat and her chestnut hair tightly kept under control by a ribbon. Angelique whose mare was jumping high any obstacle. Angelique whose blue eyes was driving him wild with needs his uncle had advised him to fight. Angelique whose lips had the most irresistible smile. Armand, naturally was totally blind at the fact his friend and his sister had started a very elaborate and complicated dance of courtship as unintelligible as a dance given for the king in his Versailles palace.

The priest to whom Matthias confined his sins knew: hold tight in his arms a woman of unknown name and kiss her wildly and Oh Lord have mercy on his soul, bed her ; bed her before or after their wedding night because he would marry the damn girl whether she wanted or not! Jesus, how could he think that! The girl was an angel and he was the son of a monster. The priest was a bit lost at the monster thing. What he knew what that Mademoiselle Angelique had found a suitor who was not going to let the filly have her way. All was good. Soon the baron granddaughter would marry a good Catholic, though a foreigner. But the young man had excellent qualities, was a good soldier and Louis needed soldiers.

The old baron knew and knew it was time for him to leave the scene. Armand would become the new baron; Angelique was going to marry even if she did not know it yet the stern man with the dark locks and the broody eyes. The lad knew he was going to marry her; he just did not know how to proceed." We all try and do mistakes. At the end, if you are still unable to articulate an intelligible audible sentence, be instinctive. She may not like it at first, but she'll come around. You two are made for each other!" Matthias smiled politely and left wondering if the old baron was not becoming senile. Armand commented his grandfather was a deep'un prone to cryptic remarks." Do not bother, Matthias. Do like me smile and as soon as he leaves the room, forget all what he said. It is that or you'll suffer the vilest of headache!"

Toward the fourth week after the tragic day which had brought three bodies to the manor, and still more were coming, the baron took to bed. Armand would not go after the killer wolf until his grandfather ordered him to go and hunt! Matthias went with him. Angelique stayed and kept company to her grand sire. The young woman got more and more alarmed. Instead of a slow passing, the old man was galloping toward his death. She knew it, he knew it. Something had to be done.

"Angelique, go to the drawer ,... the third left drawer of my writing desk. Remove it and slide your hand...you will find a small hard pouch...inside there are silver bullets...those were made by my own grandfather...to kill wolves... listen, child... special... wolves... human... wolves. Werewolves!"

Slowly, painstakingly, the dying old man told her all there is to be known about the art of were-wolf hunting. Find the creature, aim with a loaded pistol a silver bullet, and kill the wolf. End. Armand was hunting a most dangerous wolf, a werewolf. Probably owned by a vampire! The monsters were hand and hand. The vampire must be hiding safe from the wolf, during the full moon otherwise they were together hunting and killing the villagers, his villagers, his people. From now one, her people and Armand people. Matthias knew. Matthias knew about the vampires. Matthias was a good friend to his grandson; Matthias would make sure no harm happened to Armand. By the way, would Angelique promise her dying grandfather to stop behaving like an idiot? And before he closed the eyes forever Angelique had to know he was not afraid to meet his maker. He had led a long and over all happy life. If he was widowed and had buried his son and his son's wife, he had been given two wonderful grandchildren he moved much. Ah, and before he forgot, he gave Angelique and Matthias his blessings!

Once again, the two young noblemen had but found a dead body. Tomorrow was the full moon; they would be able to see more during the night for the villagers and the priest and the two hunters had decided to hunt even in the darkest of night! Armand was trying not to cry and his sister wept bitterly at the death bed of the old baron. Matthias was apart from them. He was wishing the woman would cry in his arms, he would try to console her. The baron was dead and two monsters were prowling. Armand could not believe it. "Grandpere was dying; it was the fancy of a dying old man. It was a fan..." then she produced the silver bullets pouch.

"Tis true, Armand. Those monsters also exist in my native Hungary"

"It cannot happen here. Not here, not in France. Louis would not tolerate it!

"I'll come with you. You know my aim is good and my hand steady"

The two young men tried to convince her that her place was with her grandfather death bed to pray. She was adamant. The moon was rising in her full when the three young aristocrats, a woman with a white feathered hat armed with silver bullets, wooden stakes for a worried looking Matthias and a good and reliable pair of pistols plus a sensible sword and a hunting dagger for Armand, entered the forest with the villagers suddenly less bloodthirsty and a lot more terrified. A sinister howling was heard. The villagers disbanded; the three young nobles stayed. Armand walked on the right of Angelique, Matthias walked on her left. Nothing was happening. They were walking in total silence. Matthias with his crossbow was scanning the blackness from whom a vampire may strike. Armand had his pair of pistols in each hand; ready to fire on any would be wolf, werewolf or vampire. Men or monsters, he was going to do his duty to his people. Angelique had her own pair of pistols ready, loaded with silver bullets. Armand had tried to convince her it was madness to believe the fancy of their dead beloved grandfather. She had persisted; well she at least knew how to use the great hunting knife. They were walking in silence; the only noise was their own steps crushing the dead leaves and branches.

Then Hell broke loose. A shadow jumped at Armand, while another took a swipe as Matthias. Armand resisted, shot his pistols to no avail. His last thought was for Angelique praying God that Matthias would protect her. The vampire drank with gusto the young man blood.

Matthias had managed to push away the snout with his crossbow, but he could feel the claws ripping through his long coat on each side of his body. In the middle of the two horror scene, Angelique had but a few seconds to decide the best course of action. Armand was, dead; Matthias still had a fighting chance. She threw her hat in the eyes of the werewolf who was surprised by the feathered attack. His hold on Matthias was slack for enough seconds to allow the young man to move back ward leaving the chest of the beast in full sight! Angelique did not hesitate; she aimed and fired. The werewolf fell backward. Dead. She ran to Matthias side. He was alive but badly wounded; the two young people held each other, driven by the energy of despair. Alongside the dead body of a woman. The shadow who had killed Armand could not believe his luck: tonight was a three course meal.

"My, my what do we have here? Ah, yes scratched! Oh dear, well a dead bitch, a new dog: not all is lost here. Though, I certainly cannot use you in certain ... pleasure the bitch as when human gave me. And you, little lady. Show me your face. No, this dagger is not for those pretty hands. You may wish you could kill me, dog. Tonight you are too wounded to prevent me from drinking at this charming neck. Show me your face. I like to see my victim's face"

Angelique did not want to understand the dog comment yet. Her brother was dead his blood drained out like a pig, Matthias was clearly promised a horrible future. The vampire was going to learn that she, a Calmet de Fresnoy could die with panache. The hat was gone; she let the moon show her face.

The vampire who was holding her chin let fall his hand...

"By the God of Ombos! You, you are...you are back! Back... Again, you are back..."

The vicious hand who had forced her chin up to the moon was gentle, caressing. She felt a finger touching her cheek, her hair. Both hands were caressing her head, her hair, and her lips.

"By Anubis, you do not know me, do you? Show me his face. No, not the dead one. Show me the face of the dog"

Matthias body was burning with a raging fever, the werewolf wounds were burning like hot metal branding his skin. He knew what it meant. Worse the vampire was going to kill the woman he loved. He raised his head to the moon and turned it to face the un-dead.

"Aye, I thought so. The Gods are cruel, yet they give hope. Today now is not the time. You are not her, he is not me. You are but shadows. Yet one day, you will be back and I will be there"

The vampire left the meadow. Angelique was helping to stand up Matthias who was staggering. That night, the little chubby priest had a strange pair of visitors. He helped Angelique clean Matthias wounds, confessed Matthias and had more than once almost fainted when he heard of the werewolf and the curse. He would bury side by side the old baron and his courageous grandson. Now the lady of the manor was Angelique. She had to decide of her future. She was going to; she promised. Both left. The Hungarian steps supported by Angelique

No way was he going to accept this wild plan. In four weeks, fair enough he was going to become a monster. Just for one night. All that was needed was to find a house, far from any other house. Far from anybody they knew. He was cursed; his fate was sealed with the scars on his sides. To be a dhampyr was not a sin. To have become a werewolf was a malediction; a curse. She was going to travel with him. They would find a country where nobody had heard of them. Scotland! They were Protestants like her; they had moors, isolated landscape. No one would be looking for them. It was crazy. She was a French noble lady and she was going to bury herself in Scotland because there and only there he would be safe from the farmers' pitchforks and the torch carrying crowd. She was going; they were going to Scotland. Now, they had to ride like the wind. Get to Holland, find a boat, get to Scotland, and avoid Louis agents, all in less than 4 weeks. Plus find the time to meet a minister to celebrate their wedding. Matthias finally was raised from the nightmare. No French Catholic priest would marry her to him. But in Scotland, England, wherever it was they would be safe from Louis agents, a minister would be able to marry them. For she did not plan to live in sin!

It was not easy. The first full moon was spent Matthias locked into a cellar; while Angelique on the other side as terrified at the thought unwelcomed visitors would come inquiring about the howlings. Next morning, she was woken up by the bangings on the door. Matthias night had been as horrible as hers. But he was human again and he still was able to recognize a vampire. This gift was much appreciated even if this time the werewolf had to flee where the slayer was hunting. A mumbling English priest from the English church married them in Amsterdam and they finally landed in Scotland. By that time, they had almost no money left but barely enough to buy a small cottage lost into the moors. They did not mind. As a girl, Louis would have her locked in a convent or worse married her against her will, against her heart. He loved her and the wolf stopped howling when she was talking to him. Often they would walk alone together among the heather. They never were told that some sixteen hundred years before in 61AD precisely a berserker warrior and a female druid had walked the same path, the same way and lived about in a hut where the cottage stood. I am not sure they would have minded.

Note: In 1685, Louis the Fourteenth after years of persecutions where he had initially excluded Protestants from office, constrained the meeting of synods, closed churches outside Edict-stipulated areas, banned Protestant outdoor preachers, and prohibited domestic Protestant migration decided to strike. He had disallowed Protestant-Catholic intermarriages if objections existed, encouraged missions to the Protestants and rewarded converts to Catholicism. Finally in 1685 the Sun-King formally revoked the Edict of Nantes, which had awarded Huguenots political and religious freedom. He exiled pastors, demolished churches, instituted forced baptisms and banned Protestant groups.[32] Defying royal decree, about 200,000 Huguenots (roughly one-fourth of the Protestant population, or 1% of the French population) fled France, taking their skills with them. Protestants across Europe were horrified, and even Pope Innocent XI, still arguing with Louis over Gallicanism, criticized the violence.


	5. 2011BD

2011AD

The circle of life is complete. It started a long, long time ago. The story has to end. This story has to end, don't you think. How will it end?

TW characters are his, BH storyline is his. This tale is a respectful homage from a fan, who loves History, what ifs and loves the bigger picture!

And off he goes. Off from Scotland, from Faol Heall. Off from the train station and all the racing hearts he hears, not that it bothers him much now days. Ah, these days, he is living a full human life but for minor adjustments. Not a real human life; an almost human life. He is at peace with humanity. Totally at peace. Naturally he has to "feed" once and a while the "hunger" but his ways are a lot more civilized and human than in his younger days. His a lot longer younger days, if you pardon this horrible grammatical monstrosity. By the way, yes, he is a monster. A highly civilized and polite monster.

He is not ashamed of what he is; he makes do with what he is. He does "feed", he has not gone clean. He kills elegantly; and he kills properly, mercifully, lovingly. His victims are voluntary and thankful. He knows some families and some have shaken his hands with a grateful smile. Some even are keeping in touch with him, giving him a family background which helps him come under the radar. He is a distant cousin, the son of a distant cousin…

He can't stop feeding. He does not understand why the young generation, the whelps pretend to go clean. Vampires can do a lot of things. Going clean is not one of them. Those newborns, those babies…They strut around like they know it all. That Carl… that Irish bloke…Going dry? Going loco! As for being a shark, he is no shark. But a poor diabetic who needs his insulin. He needs blood. No shame indeed; no glory either!

The secret is not on the dryness, the secret is in the elegance! Becoming a vampire makes you a killer, true. It does not imply you have to hate the victim. He kills humanly, he protects. He closes the suffering eyes, he holds the dying hands. He prays for their souls. He has about made his peace with the Gods. He even goes to church. You will not find him sitting near the altar. His place is near the door, but he sits in church and prays. Because he can pray, because he has sinned a lot and there is a huge backload of crimes he needs to be forgiven about. Yet he prays, hoping one day the Gods will be successful and turn his long life around.

His very, very long life. He still has the looks of a early thirty something years old man. His hair has been long very long, very short, curly, wavy, tied in a ribbon, with a Titus cut. He has worn wigs and earrings. His chin had been cleared on facial hair and sported thick whiskers. These days, he has stopped the earrings, shave every day band his locks are a thing of the past. Short crop like ... the scribe he is still at heart. He walks tall and proud. He does not smoke. He has stopped smoking, he is clear from drugs. He is the picture of good health. He has the looks of a healthy young British male. Except he has the soul of a very old scribe. He presents well, wears a suit and a tie. No open neck for him. He is the epitome of quiet masculine fashion.

An old soul. A much more human soul than those upstarts have. The Old Ones. He chuckles. The Old Ones. The new kids on the block! The newbies! The young jackanapes! He could press their fangs and unclotted blood would spring out… That Wyndham he has met… The South American wants to sort out some retribution in Wales. Good luck to him. No, he was not interested. The teenager has dared actually to be suave and debonair. With him! It would do good to show a united front. The Old Ones would remember his support…

He had guffawed then had the pleasure to see Edgar squirm on the chair. Edgar became pale, pulled his necktie, and opened his collar. The very, very real Old One carried on looking at the young impertinent trying to gulp the air he did not need.

Vampires do not need air, true. None the less, feeling one's neck being forcibly throttled and wrung is mighty painful. He was still holding his pint of beer quietly afar from Wyndham when he stopped the mental strangulation. The look of hate and fear was unmistakable. It would take two thousand years to the South American to master the mind games the old, this time really old, ones had acquired. Meanwhile, the South American was told without one word pronounced to go back to the school playground.

Being an old vampire has his perks such as what he calls doing his Darth Vader impersonation. Power of suggestion…mind reading…. Wyndham knows about the suggestive quality. He does not know about the rest. While he was nicely strangling Edgar without coming anywhere near him, he had been travelling through the younger vampire mind. They plan a revolution!

"May I leave, S… I mean does His Lordship allow his most humble servant to retire from His eyes"

The disdainful hand has allowed Edgar to leave. A revolution. They plan a revolution. They plan to have it all in the open. The ghosts, the werewolves and all the others… All in the open. Then what? A counter –revolution?

Wyndham was never good at maths. As Stalin said of the Pope: how many divisions? How many troops, soldiers, tanks… Fair enough they are supernaturals; they are also rare and few. The ghosts can do their bits, the werewolves can be killers one day per month, and they can set upon a few humans then what. 6 billions of humans against a miserable dismal pitiful small group of supernaturals. And that is if by miracle, the supernaturals come to accept a temporary alliance.

A REVOLUTION! In Wales out of all places… He would laugh out loud if it was not tragic. In Wales because baby Big Bad John has had a tantrum! Babies have tantrums; this is why they are babies! You change the nappy; make sure baby is "fed". If baby carries on, you check the fangs and give a gentle tender smack on baby arse! And the adult parent cleans the mess! The adult parent is as temperamental as the child. John "Vampires anonymous" Mitchell had killed twenty humans in one big show of testosterone. So what? Why were they paying Wales's police top brass friendly IT department mole? To do nothing. Did he have to play again teacher to a class of unruly kids…Jesus…?

William Her…what's his name was responsible as any sire for his kid's behaviour. Too bad the sire was totally bonkers. Irresponsible. The Daily Mail was full of outrage about teenage pregnancy. If they knew what he felt about vampires barely out from secondary Dracula school siring new vampires… The girls did not know better than open their legs wide apart, William the high school drop out, the Miss Sunshine cheervampleader has decided to have… an heir. What next a dark angel? The mid level manager was too young to have any heir. Edgar should have been firm. Edgar… what can you say when the grandfather has been as bad as the sire. Don't be surprised if baby had tantrums…

Anyhow the revolution was set in Wales. Good grief and Big Bad Edward was planning to start anytime soon. This is why he was in London, trying to ingratiate himself with the real Old Ones. Not the South American Ones.

The vampire world is complicated. You believe the guy above you is on top and there is an extra layer to make you feel like crap. Then years pass, you are on top and you learn that there is an extra layer of "topiness". Years and centuries pass, yet while you grow older and wiser, there are always 2 layers between you and becoming the capo di capo. The Don. Master of the Universe! Hahhhhhh….. Kids. Who cares if you are Dracula or a recently turned vampire from world war one. You are a vampire, tough!

He is going all the extra powers Edgar knows he has yet does not know what they imply really. Edgar so proud of…opening doors! Opening doors? Next time what: who's the daddy because I can…fly like any decent Old Chinese vampire. Being able to turn a door handle? Yes and drink beer?

What he has been able to learn is that Edgar mission to get the backing of the real Old Ones has failed. The Elders as they call themselves are not interested. Like him, they are at peace. No rage, no hate. Peace. They feed sensibly, they are under the radar. Totally human…almost. Like…

Like Ha-Nee, the Asian middle-age child from the China department in the British museum. An "expert" like him, her field is archaic China. She is even older than him. Though she looks younger. Turned when she was…19? 20? Unlike him born under a specific day of a specific month of a specific year. Ha-Nee was born around… and was turned around… She has to wear a severe pair of glasses and each morning she paints wrinkles. Most women would die (they would, except Ha-Nee like him does not kill healthy humans) to have her flawless skin. The Chinese vampire is even more powerful than him. Sweet Ha-Nee. The two vampires were recruited a few years apart by the British Museum. Her as an expert in the very early years of what would become one day known as the Throne of the Dragon.

Sorry, the Chinese Republic. Humans love to change their country names every five minute like a demented top of the pops chart. He is the most skilled hieroglyphs translator they ever had a chance to meet. Both are diploma less, but their tests have been more than successful. He has translated without errors a newly found book of the dead and sotto voce proceeded without notes, winning the standing applause of the hiring manager.

They meet at the cafeteria. The older respected expert, the new expert.

-"It was a bit risqué without a forged diploma. I was able to produce one supposedly lost and found by the sworn translator."

-"Ha-Nee, I do not have the back-up of your triad. How many Chinese vampires? How many Egyptians vampires? Duh!...Sorry, I'm envious. I could do with some help. My human friends and families keep on dying out. I sure could do lately with a decent driving license and a good passport"

-"Your fangs are not long enough….Don't panic. It is payback for the Egyptian vampires comment. My very young human babies are IT wizards. Do you have any portrait?| Even a painted portrait? A triptych? Not a papyrus one; definitely not a papyrus one…"

-"What excuse do you give as not turning up each and every day?"

-"Sun allergy"

-"Shit. Like me. Ah bah, the British museum has hired two delicate skin experts. Live with it! Must go to work. Nice to have met you"

-"We shall politely nod to each other. We must avoid any suspicion. Once and a while we shall meet over a cup of tea at the cafeteria. Or beer, I know you are Egyptian. Theban. By the way she was lovely. Sorry for your loss"

-"What? Memory pilfering. Amazing! How long does it take?"

-"An extra thousand years. I am glad you made Wyndham squirm. I suspended him upside down from the second floor. He was pitiful. Do you know he still carries his money in a leather pouch? The pouch fell on my head. It was painful with all those coins…See you in five years same place. Leave your documents in my tray. You should get them back in 2 weeks in proper ship-shape Bristol fashion. Bye…"

She leaves, the pretty girl who is obliged to paint wrinkles on her pretty face. He leaves the cafeteria too. Humans have only heard them chatting about her Country and whether ideograms are related to hieroglyphs. The humans have not heard the minds conversation. That is something Wyndham has heard about and is terribly envious. Ha-Nee does not want to interfere…yet. As a wiser elder, she has advised he does the same though she understands he wishes to. Young bloods are always eager to participate…If the going gets rough; she has imprinted her mobile number on his memory bank. She will come and stop the nonsense of the British vampires. She had carried smiling like the wise grandmother she did not look but indeed was very much so. Lovely girl… Lonely girl.

So wise and so lonely. At least he knows life, he has loved; he still loves "Her" shadow. Loves the "beautiful lady". Ha-Nee has never loved. She was turned when she was the pert concubine of a very early Chinese warlord. Love for her was out of the equation inside the locked doors of a harem…yamen… His Mandarin is still quite limited. The poor girl was married off barely nubile to her elderly toothless Lord. She has never set foot outside the tall walls…alive. Once a vampire, naturally, she had climbed more tall walls than any Everest Mountain can dream of.

Her knowledge of Love is theoretical if her lovemaking is up to scratch. He can confirm it. Sex is not the problem. The problem is the missing partner or the absence of partner. Fidelity is not a problem when you have no one to keep you on the straight and narrow. Not that it would be a problem to stay on the wagon if "she" was there…. If she was there, he would be at her feet, holding her tight and would leave the kids at their games…

Billy-what's his name and Edgar are dreaming of vampire world domination. Oh Seth, Seth. Oh Gentle God of Ombos. Grant this young man, grant your namesake patience…Seth, Theban scribe turned just after the battle may share his name and more than a passing resemblance funny enough with Bill Doe's late and very stupid henchman; stupid and dead he is not. Un Dead true, Stupid not. He is going to nip in the bud the Welsh uprising. He needs to take the train. After Scotland, now Cardiff.

Scotland was fascinating… Why in so many years has he ignored the Thistle state! He has circled the world about as much as the travelling ghosts from Dris…Driscoll? Fucking memory! So much for a supposed pristine young brain. Overheated memory. His hard drive needs fanning. He hopes devoutly that this comes with being an elder. The headaches he gets by having to store more and more memories. Where was he? Scotland…yes Scotland. Like the pre-Raphaelite Daisy-Spitfire-Spitari and her young swain Igor…no….Ivan! Daisy too young yet to avoid getting the unwelcomed attention of the dogs… What has happened to Bristol? Ivan is not going to like it. Poor, poor girl… He has been informed from all things by some bloody Casper who witnessed the deed. Ghosts do not like vampires; vampires find the ghosts to be neurotic self indulging twats. Daisy is dead; Ivan is or is not dead. Ivan missing in action, the anarchist would love his obituary… Carl not seen since… Bernie and Adam, the very young vampire; told you teenage pregnancies run in families. It is really about the blood! Bernie forever twelve…..Adam barely old enough to understand, stuck in a teenager body with very adult needs. Will Adam meet his sweet vampire sixteen…if she is a vampire? Could be a ghost…a human or what? What? What? What! A werewolf. Poor kids… the supernatural world is a fucked up hell…

Mitchell will never accept Wyndham plans. BBJ is bad, moronic yet no way…

Mitchell is going to find the loophole even if it kills him. William John Doe is going to find siring is not good enough to deserve the undying loyalty of your child. He has met once Mitchell. Once was enough. The child is volatile, too volatile to ever become an Old One, let alone an Elder. But he has a decent refreshing soul. A streak of decency strong wall against which his sire William Herrick…yessss! William Herrick. Herrick, Herrick will break.

Scotland…Daisy. Scotland. With its werewolves, so many of them even humans have made a movie. A…An American werewolf in London. Excellent movie with real footage. Too bad the vampire journalists never showed on camera. Scotland. Such a

Great outdoor scenery….He has walked up and down the moors and Life is bizarre isn't it! He has learned about the impudent dog who had dared to challenge his height

…by cutting his head off.

He was simply climbing that hill as per Miss Kate Bush song when he smelled the dog; the dogs. A very old, very dead dog and a much younger yet as dead dog. And he knows both of those human wolves.

The Briton he remembers the smell of. What happened to the young druid girl and the tattooed warrior when he…he wanted….oh he laughs. Oh By Osiris…you know what, this vampire wanted to conquer Britain single-handedly. He is making fun at Wyndham. Wyndham has the decency to believe that domination comes with a minimum of troops.

The berserker…one night…he sees through time…it is foggy…as he will get older, the picture will be clearer just like on the first television screens…one fateful full moon the wolf found a passage out from the caves and ran to the wooden hut where the young Briton druidess was. He knows how it ended. Next morning, horrified by the fate of his lover, horrified by his crime, the sword which beheaded Seth was turned against the warrior.

Seth is sad. He bears certainly some ill will to the dog as he had not enjoyed one second his long jail time underground. He has learnt so much since, he is genuinely sad for the Briton priestess.

Yet the smell off dead dogs is so pungent when he recognizes it. The Hungarian Dog! How could he forget this one because it was that day he has decided to turn his death around? When he recognized them, the two of them for his and "Her" shadows. Poor Gods trying to repair, trying to mend while he was having the tantrum of his un-dead life. What happened to them for again the girl has died just a few instants before the dog. Now this dog did not kill the girl. Shitty static…No werewolf action…That he knows… What happened…He sees the flight, the tired horsemen, and the cottage on the hill. The ruins are still standing. She married …him. Oh, that is seriously wrong. So they are married and well…it is bound to happen. She is pregnant…a human impregnated by a werewolf. Wrong…wrong indeed as the werewolf was…a turned dhampyr originally. The curse, the Gods gigantic mistake was strong thus in him. Poor lass, pregnant from a werewolf, with a werewolf child…At the first change, the baby inside her would change and his small yet very effective fangs would tear apart her womb. She died blood drained from an internal acute haemorraghae…Her poor lupine husband followed her. Who to live for as he had lost his wife and child? The remaining silver bullets did the mission they had been imparted…A trail of blood a mile long, ten miles long. All what he was touching was getting contaminated…As he returned to the B and B he was staying during his holidays, he was very sombre.

After running away in the thick French forest far from the young couple, he has realized he had to change, be better. Become better. The great cycle of re-incarnation was stuttering trying to put back everything into order. "She" had never been meant to die at that moment…or they should have died together. His anger had caused him to become a vampire. The Gods were now trying to make them meet again. But the machinery was fragile, mistakes, collateral damage…etc….Again and again, their shadows met in Britain, how could he be so blind…why Britain when it has started in Egypt. It is about the Gods, not about the Humans. Again Sigmund and Hildegard. Hildegard blood who saved him. Who reminded the crazed skull who he was and what had happened a long time ago in Egypt.

Thanks to Wyndham, he now can tidy up the loose ends. In 1066 just a few days before Wyndham was turned, his troop of Normand soldiers had tried to kill the resisting Saxon fort where Sigmund and Andreas were fighting the French invaders. The Greek youth and the Viking invaders felt strongly against William pretension to the English crown. They fought as hard as any Anglo-Saxon against the Normans. They were not successful, trapped in the wooden high tower on which fire had been set on. He sees the scene through Wyndham memory. Wyndham never paid attention. Wyndham never pays attention. Wyndham was human at the time and never understood why the two men who willingly jumped into the raging brazier were smiling…Sigmund was going back to meet Hildegard as for Andreas. Andreas was what 500 years old, not an Edgar OO – Gods, acronyms! Still a fully adult vampire – let say a 22ys old in human life. A young adult… Andreas….Andreas ….he knows the name…Andreas turned vampire in Alexandria as he was coming home to his parents house. Andreas for whom love was still his parents love. Andreas who was a good responsible parent, whose Sigmund was making him proud unlike Edgar blood line Why was he not surprised…The two men were not Saxon rebels committing suicide; they were tired travellers rushing home one to his dear lady the one to finally go home to his parents! Friends together until the end. He prays for their souls; they were good men despite being vampires. Like him… The circle of his life is complete now. He has to wait for her. The vampire wants to go home like the commuters around him.

He is tired; he has travelled so much. So much more than the Driscoll, sorry the Drisholm House ghosts did. Just like everyone in Britain he knows about them. Except he knows more intimately what happened and all must have happen though he does not know the fine details nor will know as the ghosts finally found their doors. 6 ghosts then fireworks. 6 Women waiting. The day he finds her it is going to be pina colada 24/7 and fireworks and champers and love, love, love…the female ghosts had finally found the ethereal disembodied other halves…Because he is the one who fed on the poor blacksmith widow and got his sanity back. Hildegard had started the process, the widow had been the last transfusion, the last much needed organ donation. A heart donation…

After her…death…good grief it still hurt, it is still stabbing after all those years, those thousands of years, he was in so much pain so much rage and hate. He went off the wagon big time. They call Mitchell Big Bad John, might as well call a fluff ball of kitten big bad tiger. Big Bad Seth he is! Seth who has merciless killed during twelve hundred years as the Middle East was warring against its very self and God did those wars made his plans to weed off humanity easy. He was going to transform Britain into his cage of Hell. The berserker saved him. For twelve hundred years, he was prevented from killing. This is why he is not easy with Wyndham as the young'un does not know about the temporary grave…From the moment he drank the black smith his mind has been restored, clicking back to humanity. Sadly removing the constant blood drunkenness of twelve hundred years of blood baths.

His memory back, he has clawed back sanity first. Then engage in the same self destructive behaviour. Any kill for good as long it gave amnesia. He needed so badly to forget. Curiously, he did not go all bad; but he did go weird and kinky. At the end, selecting to have as a lover a werewolf. Not a lover, a whore. The gitana had been turned as a pack of werewolves attacked her tribe. The gypsies had fought well. Only she had been scratched, the rest were gored… She had found her, hiding in the woods. Two outcasts…Poor girl, her lips were sweet, her skin had a soft velvety brown hue…They became lovers driven by the same hate against humanity. He was indeed keeping a strange company…"some" sort of company. His whore, his bed fellow, his bitch…who knows…was she "her" in another flawed cycle of re-incarnation. It is because of him, because of his impatience, his anger that she is going through the process again and again. Because he is not dead, because he has missed his door.

Poor gypsy, she paid twice. Drowned and turned to end up naked in a forest shamefully exposing her bare skin for all to see she was indeed a true lovely woman with the necessary details. What has he done…what has he done… The only good thing was that at least the two species are not compatible in the reproduction department.

Hence he goes to Barry Island to sort out a mess left by a very young angry vampire to sort out the coming mess of a barely older vampire. Why, he is stuck in the school yard of un-death. He goes want to go home, like the people around him.

He will cross through the park and waits like the humans at the zebra crossing. He hears a noise like a crash. All goes very fast. The car coming through the crowd. Her on the opposite side. HER. His heart which has not beaten for so many years is beating again. Then the crushing pain as her body is flying over the car. Then nothing,

as wooden shards fly all over from the erected wooden planks of a new construction site into which the car ends up. Nothing. Just blackness. Where is he?


	6. Chapter 6

During

Disclaimer: BH characters and story belong to Toby Whithouse. This story is my own philosophical view on what could be Death, mingled with theories on what is death and Afterlife by older civilization and musings on the concept of Time.

Time is Life where we grow; we travel on an endless journey. Hence, Death is the opposite. Time crashing, crushing of souls. Who can survive Death...?

What is Life without you? What is Life queries the singer and the long queue of would be poets. What is Death should be the question. We all know what Life is for Chris sake! We live it. It is exciting, dangerous, sad and beautiful. We know what Life is. Mostly a long wait. We wait to grow up and do exciting things like our parents and our older siblings. We are afraid of Love. How to pay the rent or the next Wall Street crash…We are sad to lose our friends or lose our job. Yet we smile when we see a butterfly fluttering on the petals of a rose and we are gobsmacked by the sunrise of fresh fallen snow on the mountain top…That's Life. We know Life. We write endless boring books, navel gazing at Life…

We should research death. Doctors research death in the sense they fight Death. At least they do something. They try to stop it, and they carefully detail the transformation of the body. They are unable to detail what happens next. They say: "he or she is gone" and you, the family, the friends make do with it. Then depending on your faith or lack of it, you read Richard Dawkins and bite the bullet or the priest, the rabbi and all the friendly believers help you, the family go through the lengthy process of bereavement… meanwhile nobody is interested by "you". You, the dead person. Not you the still living person. You are supposed to be gone, unexisting, a candle snuffed by no wind or enjoying a long rest waiting for the final judgement day. You are nothing. Easy. You are just laying and waiting. Waiting in a waiting room with no magazines, no coffee machine, and no sweets dispenser. You wait. That is if you are lucky. Because you may end up applying for a position at Satan plc... Satan… Shaitan… Seth with a clear influence of Assyrian divinities, courtesy of an unplanned and unwanted trip to Babylon for one of the many original redactors of the Bible. With a direct dive into a lake of eternal fire. For the Damned. The other damned. Like him.

If over the last three thousand years, his faith has evolved, matured just like indeed humanity, he is still fearful of the Gods. Yes, he is still a pagan at heart except he has done his peace with them. They are powerful; it is useless to fight against them. Recently, he has been fancying all that New Age revival. You know the Hare Krishna, and other merciful Gods. A God who would love enough his people to die for their sake. A God who loves the weak and the sorrowful. God knows how woeful he is. He is so tired; he just wants to go home. The fighter is tired; the soldier has fought too many wars. Home, just home. Please. Home with her. Why Gods? What have I done to you to taunt me? Why her now? Why again her dying? Just to add a nice stroke of brush to the final portrait of "A man in despair"?

Dead. So that is what Death is. He must be dead. He has seen the surprised looks of the other people on the pavement, the people who were standing by him when he was staked. Properly staked! By a shitty small wood shard. A stake none the less. Hence three thousand after having been turned to become a predatory vampire, he is staked thanks to a road traffic accident. Because the silly bugger was talking to his mobile, pressed the foot to get faster, did not pay attention the lights were turning red. The arsehole has killed again his beloved. Like Ramses asshole son had killed her, because the youth had decided her was grown enough to take out Dad's favourite chariot. The lad was unable to handle the 2 spirited stallions; John Smith had his mind elsewhere than driving. Result the same: she dies. Again and again she dies. There is re-incarnation true. He knows it, his memory and all those people he has seen and met over his long story had told him so. But the fate remains the same, they die. She dies. And again and again he watches her die. That is his destiny to watch her die. Die like the Briton girl, die like Hildegard, die again and again while he watches. And when he does not watch, he is the killer. Like the berserker, like Sigmund the fool who should have wooed the lass instead of taking the short cut of ravishing her. Probably very vikingey but not the thing when you want a meaningful relationship! Die like the nameless gitana and Katya who, he is not sure may be her again. And again and again, he is blind. He does not recognize her yet again and again the same sad tale is playing for his edification. She dies and now he is dead also. Finally dead as in proper dead, dead dead. Dead stupidly, a totally accidental death. Well, it had to be that…Vampires do not do sickly deaths. They enjoy a damn good health. They cost nothing to the NHS, no dentist, no optician. The dentist would have a heart attack if he showed him his fangs as for the optometrist there is no test available to appreciate why he still can see with the black orbs. He contributes to the British Museum pension scheme for a pension he will never benefit from. Vampires are not shirking from work. They are ideal members of the workforce. But for the minor fact, they are highly distracted by the red fluid circulating in the veins and arteries of their colleagues

Death by staking accidental or criminal, death by fire, death by beheading. Fire is painful, beheading is not nice. A criminal death is stressful. He has enjoyed the vampire version of "going through his sleep". No stress, no pain. Nice. Big bad Seth is gone…like a baby. He was feared thus envied when alive, un-dead; he is going to be the envy of all the vampire high society. Seth Bari is gone. Like an angel! Some have all the luck! Killed and rampaged for twelve hundred years, then took a sabbatical looking for his true self then back to action, was wild, then settled. On his best behaviour and died in his un-sleep. Without any worry. Wyndham is going to turn green, his dark soul eaten by jealousy.

OK, he is dead. The stake entered his left chest. It barely gave an impression of burning when it reached his dark equivalent of heart. Then something happened. He has heard the gasp of the woman closest to him. Because his body has quickly turned to ashes, like a photo, a camera film burning…And it burned…like the wind of his native Egypt. The Wind of Set. The desert storm wind. Mighty unpleasant. Very hot and warm. But it has stopped. And he is here. Alive and dead. No more alive. Totally dead. Alive for this new dimension. Dead for the previous one…Today died Seth Bari Esq., profession: certified translator in hieroglyphs, full time vampire at the very ripe old age of three thousand three hundred and sixteen years. To think the Irish whelp complains of feeling old when he is just one hundred and sixteen years old. Yes, baffling. Baby John must be fanging…Finally dead. Bad, good. So this is Death.

Well, this is going to make quite a lot of people unhappy as everybody is wrong. Oh, as says one of his friend, everybody has been near the truth. Close but no cigar. Close the defender of Widow Darwin and lil'orphan Dinosaur. Sorry, Dick, there is something after Death. Him to the very least. But the bishops, the ayatollahs and the Dalai Lama wrong too. No angels, no copycat versions of a demented Pan. Nothing, just that. Blackness. Total blackness and him. Which means he must go back to Earth, get in touch with William and the kids. It is not about world domination. It is a charitable crusade. Vampires are precursors. Death is not worth it. Eternity on the other hand in the body of an early thirty years old is appealing. Firstly there is no damnation, no God. Stop that silly grin, Dick. Death is boring. On Earth, everybody fit and it will be strictly voluntary will become a vampire. Those too old….there must be a solution. Yes, re-incarnation. There go through a new cycle, become healthy young adults and voila. Babies become adult, voila. Lack of human blood. Doctor, your line of work. Make those blood banks available. Death is boring and useless. Eternity in a void…He must come back, inform vampires and humans alike. The humans will be too happy to become the new leading specie: Homo sapiens vampiris. There is no curse, just a void! Vampirism is just a way Nature, Evolution has found to ward off Death because Evolution knows Death is nothing. And that means the worst punishment is not becoming a vampire. Criminals are going to be condemned to live and enter the void. Alone, with yourself. Shit, he has said the word which comes with it. Alone. He is alone. He must escape; inform humanity of the big lie. When we die, we enter a void with nothing. And we are alive none the less. We do not need to drink, feed or piss…do we need to f…can we…alone? He is only a cerebral thought. He does not have a body. Does he see? No. nothing, just darkness. Yet, he sees…Let's try now with the vampire eyes. Same, no difference. Either because he has no eyes to speak of, either the orbs though poor in daylight and sharp in the night can't really pierce the darkness…

He must avoid thinking of the now. He must focus on humans. Humans must be protected from that nonsense and from the preachers who lie about the nonsense. Vampires are not the scourge of humanity; they are its best, its most sincere protectors. He must return and start converting. He must…not feed, bur proceed to mass scale immunization program. Death immunization! The recycling of souls known as re-incarnation is a sadistic program. For how long are you alone in the void. Shit, he goes again at like a moth attracted to fire. Hospitals will be a mile high. Not to feed, to protect. No more random hunger driven attacks. Clinical turnings in a hygienic setting. No gore. Happy families coming with the kids. "Now look at Nurse. Nurse is going to bite Dad and Mom. Look, when you get to be as old as Dad and Mom today. Dad or Mom will bite you and all will fine. Yes, you can show nurse your teddy." Or "Nurse will do it because Mom cannot hurt Baby…Isn't it silly, Doctor. I can do it but not for my kid"…It will be like in the fairy tale. And they all lived together happy forever after. Forever after. Not to feed, to protect. No blood bath Just a nip. He hopes he has enough in it to turn as many humans as he can. Because he has been selfish, not sharing…When did he last turn a human? It was two hundred years ago, in Paraguay when South America was getting rid of the old tired Spanish Crown. Lots of chaos. Not as bad as Bagdad but certainly lively….It is one thing to feed on one human. Can he bite and bite and bite again? Can a vampire actually be sick of drinking blood? Not to be blood drunk, but fang tired? That is something really unexpected. First thing first, return to Earth and inform the population about the void. Death is not what it used to be…

Must inform, tell them. Offer, give protection. Be not the angel of death, but of mercy, of eternal life. We all have been so wrong. And possibly vampires are not cursed. There is no curse, just a big lie. He must come back, he has to come back. Except he can't. There is that urban legend about vampires being able to come back. If killed by a werewolf. The secret is in the fangs. As long as the vampire is killed and destroyed after the fangs are removed. Some are good at killing his people; like that duo of werewolves. Father and son. Staking and quickly pulling out the fangs. That must hurt. A lot. Werewolves…where do they come in the equation? And ghosts? Dead people who are able to jerk it out before the void. Suspicious souls. You were right. Casper was right. No wonder he was neurotic. You would become mad in the void. He must not become mad. HE MUST HOLD IT.

He is dead, he has no heir and he is a virtual prisoner without body. Just as bad as when he was glued to that thick skull of his! Because he is thick; he gets information, leaflets, and clues. He still can't read the signals. Seth, Herrick minion, points at the planes. Set, the ex-scribe is not able to read. It is worse…He is a prisoner. OK got it. He must focus on Life. Life, he must inform them. It is still pitch black. If there is re-incarnation…there is re-incarnation. He knows it; all vampires can vouch for that.

Any vampire older than 1000 years of age knows he sees again and again, people of his past under different guises. So yes, the Buddhists have it right. But the Taoists have it wrong. There is no happily ever after in death. No fields to toil in like in the legends of his country, his very old country. The Egyptians have it wrong. No need for mummification. The soul leaves forever the body and his body does not need a pyramid or a tomb or food. Good grief, if nowadays (is it still 2011?) Britain families were behaving like he did for his father…Moving companies would be forever rich. All what you own in a grave; the size of the cemeteries! The constant need for new furniture! What would he be buried with? His collection of comedy DVD? No, not the stilted Laurel and Hardy, but Mr Bean because he looks a bit like Rowan… Would they notice the absence of mirrors? The Egyptian theme would be commonplace. Possibly the loose cash, all those pennies, bits and bobs since about 1250… About valueless at the time. But in 2011, a pristine priceless collection…Imagine all that in a tomb and the food… Pff…he is glad he has avoided the naked mourners and their shrieks around his sarcophagi…He has had the best of both worlds and avoided until now Death in both worlds. Why can't he move on and be re-incarnated? Why can't he be with her? He is dead. Why the void, why here? He is dead. Is there someone around?

It is black and he is floating. It is totally black; a black hole. This is Death. Nothing. Not lake of Fire, no snarling demons armed with pitchforks, no pearly gates. He was not exactly expecting a smiling McParadise angel between you and him. Our flavour of the month is Honesty! It is black and he is alone. She is gone. He has seen her alive then... then in just a second, he has lost her forever. He will never see her again. This is his punishment. To float in Darkness, alone. Without thinking he bites his under lip and it hurts. Curious! He has a lower lip and some teeth left to bite it, and he must have some sensitive nerves to feel the pain. This is how he realizes that he has a mouth, a body; a complete body. A clothed body. And fangs! And his wallet! But not his mobile phone. In Hell you cannot call home like in Hotel California, but you have to show some proof of identification. It is black, he has a body and he is alone. Floating in or on a sea of darkness. Alone. And it is boring. Alone.

"err, Hello? Hello! HELLO!...HELLOOOO!"

He is yelling now as loud as he can in the silence. He is dead, he has a body still, and he is shouting at the top of his lungs and he is getting really pissed at whoever is responsible for that darkness. He is more than pissed, he is deadly afraid. It is fear that is gnawing his heart.

If this is Death, and if he is alone. He is not good at being alone... long. When she died, he got angry. He was not alone, he drank blood to forget. He is dead, she is dead again; he is alone and he knows how it is going to end. It will be like when he was stuck in the head, the lonely voice in his skull. Buried alive for eight hundred years, a jabbering wreck for the following four hundred. Twelve hundred years of madness. Trying to keep sane, trying to keep her memory. Losing her memory. Fighting each second to remember and to forget at the same time. Remember her smile, remember her death. Then what? Slowly forget each and every precious moment worth remembering, becoming more and more like an animal; getting more and more into catatonia then silence. Nothing brain dead. Then what...?

"!"

"!" is the reply.

He moves in every direction trying to see through the darkness. Nothing...He does not ask to be with her. He just wants to keep her memory. He will stay in the dark, alone. Please. Please. He could wee in a violin for the result he gets. Alone. Why? Why these 21st century clothes? Why not a shaven head, eyes adorned with kohl, a plain white loincloth and a red belt. Hello, he died three thousand two hundred eighty five years ago. He wore two large leather wristbands. Not a suit. Someone is messing up again. He should be dressed like an Egyptian!

"!"

"!" is the right answer.

The silence is eloquent. Nobody home. If he carries on, he is going to hurt his voice. Because he can hear his voice. He exists. Good. In Death you exist. He was not expecting Death to be like that. He knows Purgatory, the corridors and the doors. If vampire after life different? Possibly... Are all the vampires in similar Hell? Well, well... The Gods sure like to show they can afford grandiose landscapes! Unless... Unless...this is not After Life. Yes, this is Death. You do not go from Life to Afterlife without a stop at Death Station. We all think the process of dying is like switching off a light. Wrong: it is a journey. And it is crying for recognition. It is very logical. Our bodies are made of atoms, blabla electrons blabla Brownian motions blable. In short we are made of little bastards constantly moving around. He is on Earth, whether he turns right or left after the light turns green is not going to bother Earth, yet it takes time. If on one of those electrons, a guy like him turns right or left, it is not going to bother the big electron; yet it will imply some time. Some real yet unintelligible time. He is on a journey from Life to Afterlife, because Death is a process which takes time. Good. He feels better. Better does not mean satisfied. He is living the microsecond of the switch off. He is into the nitty-gritty of what is the switch off. Like in a very slow motion video... He is dead. The process allows the soul to accept one is dead.

" HEEELLlllooo. Sorry. I...understand and accept I'm dead. I have been technically a walking dead since three thousand years. I accept. No Problem. I am dead. Can we move to the Afterlife now? If you please...In your good time"

That was not expected at all. No men with sticks and ropes... Not yet. Shit. Just like any Old One, he knows the corridors. Not that he knows his. So why here. Why still here? Is it because he is a vampire? After all, all the travellers to the corridors were vampires. Technically: un-dead. Hence alive. In a creepy way, but alive. Dead persons maintained alive through ingestion of blood. Going through someone door is like gate crashing, taking a short cut. The wrong entrance. Because when you get to the corridors, it is yours. Not his, he has never travelled. He just knows the vampire who goes with the recently dead never sees again the "newly-dead" when he gets to the hallways. Probably because of the journey he is taking. Or he has taken and never discuss with his unexpected deado-stopper. So that is Real Death.

Yelling is useless. He is on a rollercoaster which will stop eventually. The Gods are having a go at him. He is cursed. But why her? She is no vampire. She is innocent. Why this void? Is it a conduit? Away to teach him a thing or two...

"Eh Guys, when is the next showing due"..."or the next flight; you know the next bus for Re-incarnation City?"

Nothing. Silence. He thinks he is now standing up. Not sure about it. Still blackness, darkness, you name it. Pitch-black. Nothing to hold on to. Black. Floating. One thing is sure someone should be warned and will be at risk when he crosses the door. Herrick's son wants to save a ghost? Why a ghost? She is our friend, says Mitchell. Big Bas John is in denial. After all it is his business. His business is he has missed quite a few incarnations. When is the next train? Please, he must board that train! If he misses it, he will turn seventy when she is born; or he will be a woman. He is delirious with fear.

Death is boring. Everybody dies. Not a great achievement. What is important is the way you die. His death was…is…accidental. Not glorious, no blaze of glory for him. No pain, no gain…eh! For a vampire, he really got lazy. No Buffy, no Angel; nothing worth a notice. This is getting more and more of a nuisance. He is going to wait nothing for eternity. All because he died a peaceful death… Peaceful… Yes, it is that he died at Peace. Not angry; just wanting to go home and be with her. A nice, quiet, honourable Death. A decent Death. Not even alone as he was blessed to be given the joy to see her again after all those years. Yes, it has been a blessing. The Gods are…merciful? Are they trying to impart some sort of information, message? Message for Seth: Do not despair? Or some twisted lesson? Is it some sort of mind game and only when he gives the right answer, the ride starts and he can finally reach the destination?

What is the lesson? Because he knows now how he must proceed. Not by yelling, but by giving the right answer to the Gods. A bit like the magic formulas he was writing on each and every papyrus which is found in every tomb in Egypt on the Book of the Dead. Dawkins, idiot! There is an afterlife; there are gods…What are the Gods. This is a part of the Riddle. Gods…He is in a void. And he must solve a riddle. A riddle to get out of the void? To enter the re-incarnation process? To find her? Is that the riddle? He has to find answers. He has to progress. He has a journey …through death…This is not a void. This is a journey where time seems immobile but is not. Because it is the time of the Gods. Their version of time. Where you see the whole picture, in every which possible dimensional way. Gods, have mercy on him. He is only human. A human turned vampire. A human, none the less. Vampires are not Gods. They are simply supernatural creatures. Creature…is that the message. He was created? The Gods are creators who discard their toys? Bastards! No, sorry, sorry. The Gods are powerful…and kind. You don't want to upset them, do you Seth? You want her back. Are you bloody Orpheus? An Egyptian scribe barely able to write two rhythms sentences visiting the Greek Inferno. No Ammit, true. Just Cerberus ready to devour any unbooked visitor.

Is it what he is? Orpheus. The man who never accepted his loss. The man who dared to question the Gods. Who made them bow to his will, who obliged them to acknowledge his despair. The man who was cheated from his rightful love, because the Gods love nothing better than torment humanity. Because the Gods are not bastards, but cheats. Cowardly cheats, who hide behind pretended bogeymen. Men with sticks and batons! Ah where are they the monsters he remembers to have seen during the interval of his coming death and his arising as an un-dead. Where are they, the terrors of the afterlife? The creatures who give nightmares to ghosts and vampires alike. Come on, bring them on. He is three thousand years old, he is a seasoned killer. He has lost his soul, he has lost the love of his life. He has nothing to lose; he is dead. What can happen to the dead as there is no lake of fire, no demon. It takes more than blackness to get him into a tizzy! Where are you, monsters? Hey you rope man. Hey you with the baseball bat! He may be body less, he's sure he can still fight it dirty! Even without fangs...

There are naturally no men whether with or without sticks as for the ropes, they have gone AWOL...He is losing it. He is losing his mind. Please, Gods. No joke. He is sorry. He just wants her so badly. Please. He is not a God. He cannot think in every which way, making every which connection. Weigh what is important, discard the rest. Check the rest to see if something has been missed; recheck, re-sort out. Calibrating each and every detail like he had all the time in his life. He surrenders, he gives up. The void…The void is winning…he floats half conscious in the void. The Gods have won. He does not care anymore for an answer. They have tortured him in every step he has ever taken. Gone his love, gone his life, his dignity. Because there is no dignity in having to feed from other humans. He is no better than a druggie needing his fix to sustain till the next fix. Just a machine. He is screwed. He is a loose bolt. He deserves to be thrown into the bin of annihilation. Gods, he accepts your decision. He is irredeemable. He is alone in the void…Floating, losing it….alone for Eternity. Pretending he can come back to Earth when in truth, he is heading to madness if he is lucky. Because he would still be alive, somehow. But he does not want to be alive; he accepts Death and all its implications. Losing it. Floating. Darkness. Blackness. So much blackness. So much blood. The surrender is total. Finally, finally after all these years, he is happy to black out and he does black out. It comes slowly and slowly it creeps. He has never ever fainted in his long life. But he is losing consciousness. His mind loses connection. He is losing it…all is black including in himself. The void has won; the v….

The void will not win; he is not going to give up. He wants her so badly; he is fighting it. Seth, don't give up, mate. Remember, each and every souvenir if your life; even the nightmare, the horror. Remember each scene, each crime; more you remember, more you keep hold on the precious memory which is her. He fights; it is a very immaterial fight as he is floating in nothingness, struggling against nothingness. He does not understand why; but he knows something is coming his way. Big way, big retribution. And it hits. He does not see it; he has felt a big whack on his back. Like when a tree falls on you, like a safe falls on Wile.'s head out of nowhere from the sky. And boy, does it hurt. The nothingness has finally taken notice of his arrival, of his existence. He knows he is going to regret to have awakened the conscience of the void. Because it does not stop. He does not see them in the void; but he feels them. He hears their whispers, their short intakes of breath and he hears them heaving lifting and whacking those huge big baseballs or something akin to it. He fights back, he fights but he sees nothing whereas they see through the void. And they carry on beating the living daylights out of him. As suddenly as it came, they leave. He is hurting all over. His body is just Pain. One big feeling of unsufferable Pain. At the end, he is curled in a tight ball; just wishing it would stop, he would be dead. But in Death, you can't die. You can only be born again; and he knows he is very far from the re-incarnation cycle. Men with sticks. He ticks the box. Where are the ropes? He should not have asked. He feels them circling slowly his limbs and he still floats! Like snakes around his wrists and ankles; around his neck. What does that mean? Bungee jumping? Because it feels like it and each time it stops and he feels going backward or sideways and downward, the rope around his neck tightens and strangles him. Nice. And it carries on. Spiteful, cruel Gods. . Indifferent to Man's woes, yet ready to torture Man at the slightest pretext. He is angry, He has never been angry like that. He taunts the Gods. However covered in blood, he does not pretend to be moral. Deprived of a choice, at least he is not a hypocrite! Bring it on! Seth will never ever surrender. It comes and he wishes he had never fought against the Gods. And he wishes he had never rebelled against the Gods. And it comes the ropes and the sticks, the strangling, the fall and the dive and the punches, the blows, the endless whacks, a blitz of thumps, like a free for all knuckle fist fight where he is the receiving end. It is too much. This is the end, his end. He does not even see it coming. His last and only thought is for her. The blackness swallows him as he passes out.


	7. Together

Together.

Disclaimer: TW, those BH characters, I confirm; they are yours. Now, this vision of Death, this journey, it is all mine. But I do not mind sharing it with you. Because Life and Death define what is humanity. A conscience which is switched on and off.

Where were we? Seth has finally gone behind the veil. He has entered the void. Unpleasant place, the void. Taunting the Gods by denying the existence of Death has been a mistake. Well, the Men with Sticks and ropes have reminded him humans even turned vampires are but human toys for the Gods.

He is floating, standing…not. He is not standing. As for floating, he is not. He is lying on the floor and the floor is neither hot nor cold. It is …misty and it tickles his nostrils. His head feels like after a massive binge drinking hangover when it starts receding. The headache is leaving, but he is still giddy. If he did not know better, he would be wondering if somebody has not whack his head at one point in the void. His throat is sore; his neck has only been once as painful. When he was turned. Today, his neck feels worse. He rubs it gingerly. Even breathing is painful. Breathing? He is breathing? Again? The light. He sees something. He knows that now he is somewhere else. This is not the void. The void was utter blackness. This is the opposite, it is "lighted". Light coming from all over above him, under, on the sides and it is misty. He does not see the floor but he is able to see his arms and his hands stretched in front of him. He must have fainted. Seth the passing out vampire… He can see his arms and the sleeves of his suit. He can feel his wallet. He is dressed like when he died. The Gods are constant. Well, he better stands up and sees what this new place has in store for him …

Shoes…

Shoes… Red shoes. Red shiny pump shoes. They are not sparkly. And he is not Dorothy. Why shoes? Because they are attached to a pair of neat ankles … and legs. Female legs. He has to look up. He does not dare. He prefers to nurse the headache just a bit longer. He has to make sure. Even if it is humiliating to be a grown man sprayed on the floor. He shakes his head. Then it hurts. There was light, now there is sound. After the silence of the void, his ears or what was the equivalent of ears in the void are not used to real physical noise. There is a buzz, a hissing, like a radio static. He turns on his back, closing his eyes. The eyelids open against his will. The shoes are gone; it is because they are lower from his visual field. He still sees the legs, the knees and the beginnings of thighs…and a dress or a skirt. It is female and it is probably related to the red shoes. He is in Death with a female…a woman. Who is she? The hangover is better, but it is still not quite that. He must get up. He is not going to spend eternity on a floor, however misty. He turns on his tummy; again the red shoes appear. The static is not abating. He stretches his arms and now slowly starts to get on his knees, pushing on his hands. Good, now he is not more laying. He is kneeling on both knees. He cannot see above the skirt. Too much mist there. One leg, another and he stands up. A wave, a big tall wave, a tsunami wave of sound engulfs him. He still can see the legs but they are reeling. His legs; they are reeling. He is going to fall. He is as weak as a baby, as a new born. And all swims in front on his eyes, the mist is spinning; and the legs, the red shoes legs they move also. He feels something holding his arm, steadying his body. And he feels so heavy. All is so slow, heavy. He closes the eyes; the glare of the light was too much. The sound was too painful. Feeling his own body moving, even that hurts. How long has he been staying in the void? He tries again, and opens his eyelids. The sound has changed, he cannot make sense of it; it is different. It does not hiss anymore. Because it is words from a language he does not understand. As for the legs, they now have a body and arms with….matching pair of hands. Yes, female. He is weak. The arms hold him and he accepts the help. He welcomes it. He does not beg for it, does not request it. He enjoys it. It is not saving, it is being brought back from the dead. He smells the perfume…herbal, fresh. Not clingy, not saturated sweet. Simple, elegant. And he feels the soft hair rubbing his cheek and something metallic. An earring. Female. It is summer, she wears naturally her arms bare. Idiot! It is summer 2011 when you die, Set. Is it summer now where you are. Do the Gods go winter skiing or enjoy summer holidays? No, they are Gods; time is immobile for them. He knows he is pushing it off. He hears now clearly the words and he knows what they say. He knows the owner of the soft skin against which his own cheek has rubbed. He knows the body which holds him, because he has held this body, dreamt of this body for a good many years. He knows the voice. He has to open his eyes. Not yet. He has waited for so long. He can wait just a few more seconds. Because he knows now the wait is over. Because, now he has finally got home.

- "You worried me, I saw you fall when the car got into the crowd. I thought it had hit me but I watched you falling. Are you hurt? Can you move? Yes you can. I am stupid…I have tried to tell you to wait till the paramedics come. You would have none of it. You were sprayed on the tarmac…Are you OK?"

His eyes are still closed, but now his arms are around her. Is it a bad joke? Some sort of test? He feels her body; they are both alive then. Are they back in London? Did he simply faint watching the accident? Because he thought she was killed again? Swooning like an idiot?

He is an idiot. He has finally opened the eyes. And he knows he has that stupid grin on his face. He is so happy, so incredibly happy. He does not care where he is. She is back. She is back, alive in his arms. And he smiles like the idiot he is. The Gods know. The Gods have their ways and their agenda is not human; it does not fit human understanding. But always they land on their two feet, their nine lives. The Gods know their business. Finally after three thousand years, Seth and Eshe are back together in the same dimension. He looks at her like she was, like she is, because she is…She is

-" "

-"I'm sorry. What are you saying?"

-" The beautiful Lady has come. Nefer... Sorry". He feels inadequate. For in 2011, what he says means nothing...

-"err. Thank you. Why are we here? The people, they do not see me! And …they go through you!"

-"You do not know what you are, are you?" Poor sweet. Firstly, they are both dead. Secondly, the static and the mist are due to the fact they are located in 2 dimensions at the same time. One the time of the Gods where all is still, immobile and so incredibly worthwhile and the earth dimension where they witness what happens or happened after the accident so they learn and accept they are dead. The Gods machinery of Death in action.

-"I am Ish McDowell. I mean Eshe McDowell. It is pronounced Isis. And it is the right way to write it. Look, the people, they walk through you and me. What happened? Oh my God…"

- " Eshe. You…you do not recognize me?" No, sorry mate. She does not.

-"err. Sorry, no. err…but…but I feel…I know I have…been waiting for you for a long, long time…? I don't understand. Am I supposed to know you?

Ish was not getting it. The young man, the lanky easy on the eye youngish man was looking at her like she was the seventh wonder of the world. When she had noticed him across the street, before crossing the road; she could not but look twice. This man…he was rather good-looking…but there was something else. He, too, was like transfixed. Both were going to cross the road, he toward the park, her heading for the library further down the road. They were bound to meet. They did not meet.

She remembers dimly the sound, the crash, the noise and a bit of the pain. The car which has…run over her has stopped. Run over? Fly over? ... She is incredibly lucky she survived that accident. All fine and dandy then, her clothes don't even have a scratch or a tear. It is incredible and those stiletto shoes, the heels they are perfect…She has seen him pierced by the long wood shard and falling or fading. It was weird. Next thing, she is in that huge white lighted room and in front of her he is fallen on the floor, unconscious. She has called him and slowly he has got up. A bit woozy naturally. She has helped him to steady up, holding him and ending up being the one who is held in his arms. It does not feel wrong.

She looks all over herself. She is totally unconscious the young man is really devouring her…metaphorically. He looks at her, scans each and every line and curve. He can't believe his eyes. It is her. It is her. It is really her.

Except she speaks English, with a faint Yorkshire accent. And her attitude is not meek. Certainly not meek. But it is her. She is now trying to remonstrate the policeman, correct that the policemen! The paramedics have come, she runs to them. Guess what? They do not pay attention to her; they do not brush her off or tell her to move away. They walk through her; through him. If it does not tell her…

She still does not get it; she insists to speak to a doctor, a nurse, the police. Those people are blind, deaf; stupid. She is not going to tolerate it any longer. He better gets her out of the way before she recognizes the body. She insists, she is well and she just wants to help and not make a fuss. She is a nurse. The driver should be arrested. Check his alcohol level! He could have killed someone. The fact that said driver is crying does not ring a bell.

She wants to tell the paramedics they should go away, leave. Please just go and help a real situation because here, all is in control. She wants to see what they are doing. He tries to grasp her hand, tear her away. She is having none of it. She is as stubborn as…when….When was it?

A long time ago. A very long time ago. As when he saw her for the first time. Just like today. Because all in all, he has only seen her once…alive but a few days. Today will be the second time. The second chance. Except he was alive at that time and now he is…that dead thing. Is he human, un-dead or dead. Or he is not. Or this time he is incredibly lucky. Because they are still together. Alive in Life. Dead in Death. Whatever. What counts is that they are finally together.

When he saw her across the road, he thought at first it was a trick of the light. It was not. It was just like he had walked out of the temple after the morning dedications in the Naos. The dedication to Seth, his namesake. She was going toward the apothecary. Seth who is cruel and unforgiving can be also the protector of the night, the one who fights off on his boat the monsters alone at the prow, faithful warrior on behalf of Ra. Seth is not always cruel. Just like Hathor, the Golden Lady, the lady of love can also be seen as Sekhmet the Red Lady of Slaughter. Later on, much, much later on, he has learnt exactly what it meant. To kill in a red haze, like the Lioness Goddess. In those days, he believed in the Gods. In those days, he was a scribe; in these days he is still writing. He has found a job at the British Museum. They call him Robin, as the Boy-Wonder because he is so good at translating the hieroglyphs. He is like a native…He is a native. Robin…and Batman. The very Dark Knight.

These days, he is at peace…

She does not understand. She did not understand at the time, a long time ago. She was just carrying some lotus flowers gathered at great peril as Sobek sons like to swim near the shores. She was plucky at the time; she is still. The flowers have healing power. She was fearless. Will she be fearless now, as the paramedics are turning over the body? Her body.!

She goes pale. Her golden skin goes pale. Otherwise she bites the bullet. She recognizes the shoes, the straps of the summer pleated dress. Almost like she was dressed…how many years ago…He does the math. Something in the region of more than three thousand and two hundred years… She was wearing a strap dress, with white pleats as it was the fashion in those days. Exposing a pair of charming breasts. Because that was the fashion. Every woman showed their breasts, even the old crones. And they used to put perfumed cones of butter on their wigs because it was the in thing to do. Do that at Pizza hut, and don't be surprised to be sectioned!

Today, the dress is more demure. As for the shoes... He supposes the red shoes make up for the henna soles of the Ramesside era. She has kept the short black hair, like a bob. Like it was, hidden by the wig. Except this time, there is no a wig. It is not important, he should wear a brown cap on his shaven head; he has short cropped hair! It must be important that three thousand years later, their clothes are as identical as can be from the original setting. In 2011, he is as bland as he was in 1274BC. Somewhere, where the Gods dwell; someone is keeping the accounts and the ledgers as close as can be to exact superimposable reality. Except it is London 2011AD and not Ombos lost in the sands of time.

A young one, a very young one. A newborn compared to him has said God is a bit of a bastard. Poor sweet innocent child. God is not, the Gods are not. They are mighty powerful beings. They are the Powers that Be. They may indeed have the head of a jackal or a falcon. They may be one or more. They may own a hammer or have 6 arms. They may offer 72 virgins and 72 youths. They may approve of Rome or of Luther. They are not bastards. Poor guys. They are lousy plumbers! Miserable fucking incompetent screwers of lives. It is not that they mean harm. It is that their experimenting skills are on par with Igor, the hunchback of Frankenstein Junior! They mean well but they flunk! And they persist. Instead of trying to learn from experience, they try again and again. Surprise! They flunk again. They invent re-incarnation. Which is a great concept. But it takes them three thousand years to get her and him in the same place, same time. How hard can't it be? Same time, same place. See you. Tomorrow. Three thousand years later…

Anyhow, if the Gods are pitiful incompetent scientists, intent to experiment on humans' finer feelings; they are also stubbornly dedicated to redress the wrongs. Hence him now, supposedly an Egyptologist with so much insight on Antique Egypt and a less known insight on blood groups. Even the Jacob Creeky ones; he has sampled each and every one of them. Was it that what he had to do, what they wanted him to do? Spiralled down to commit each and every sin known under the Sun, the Moon and minor stars whilst the Gods took note. The price was unaffordable. The prize was worth it. Hence her, clearly so much human, alive and wonderfully ready to be his again. If the Gods are inclined. Are they?

Alive. She feels alive. Except she is not. Because she is clearly, definitively…dead. Except she is alive. She walks, she moves, she talks, she is seen. She is seen at least by one person. The young man who had made her heart feel so alive…just before. The paramedics are shaking their head; Death is confirmed. The policemen put her body on the trolley and zip up the black bag. She is inside a closed bag! She is not. She is out. She cries silently. Is that Death? To see your body being trollied around! Seeing people who do not see you, hear people who are likewise deaf, touch people who go through you, like a light breeze? Is that Death the eternal ignorance that there is a life after Death?

Her body was like a broken doll. One red shoe was missing, it is still under the tyre; the front tyre of the car which was too fast; which could not stop in time. The car bumper shows the impact where her body was hurt. She sees her hand bag on the tarmac, her lips are pale, there is blood oozing from her nose, there is a nasty gash on her forehead where it hit the windscreen. There is blood in her hair; so much blood. Blood also on her hands as she must have tried to protect herself. There is no blood on her hands. Her feet are hosed by two red shoes. She is alive except she is dead. Is that Eternity? Watching people dispersing away, the ambulance going back to work to see if this patient is…salvageable? To see the police drive away and the car which killed her quietly towed far…far…

The daylight is still good; everybody seems to have forgotten about her. She cries in silence. She sniffles. She stops crying. She does not rail against destiny. Why rail when there is nothing you can…change? She is dead; she has to accept it…and move on. How does one move on when one is dead? Is there a welcome committee? Is the young man who looks at her like detached, yet so concerned…her angel? The guardian angel, her great-nanny taught her to pray when she was a kid? Or is he ... ?

- "Are you Death? My…Death?"

If that man is Death, she is minding less the fact she is dead. She will never see the Hobbit, she will never know if she will win the Euro million lottery or if all those political, sportive, celebrity issues will be sorted. She does not care about that; she cares about Dad and Mum, her Nan. Her best friend Jodie and possibly Jodie brother who is Ron Wesley look-alike or is it Neville Longbottom? But it does not matter anymore. She is dead. Her parents will cry, her big brother who became a dad last year will cry, she will never see if her baby niece Lea (as in Star Wars except she is not Organa because really you cannot call your daughter "lovely organs!") will walk for Bonfire Night. She is dead and she has to make do with it. She will. She is not stupid. She works in a hospital theatre and she… She was going to Uni and will never graduate. She loved biology, plants. She wanted work in ICU; fight the good fight, saving real lives. She has no life to speak of. All she wants now is to know what is coming next.

- "Death? Me? No! No! I am like you. You know, err, dead"

Funny that. He is actually really dead. Dead as in proper dead. He died exactly three thousand two hundred and…and a lot of years ago. After the battle, he had been in the rear guard, watching over for any attempt by the Hittites to rekindle their troop's ardour. Both sides were exhausted; there was no real winner. Count on Ra-mis-sou to weave the tale and make sure every Egyptian knew he was the winner. He might be king or pharaoh of PR; he was not a dumb general. Some soldiers had been chosen to watch over the battlefield. This is when "it" happened. He heard some noises, saw some shadows over the fallen, went to investigate and …never came back. After "that", when you have already lost the woman you will love for Eternity, to be eternally young, nursing a sore heart, to become a vampire is not a soul searching moment. Bitter he was and bitterness can lead you to walk on a very wild side. He hated Death when she was taken from him; he hated Life after Life was taken from him. He hated humans was he was no more human; he hated humanity as he could not die. He hated each and every living bit of humanity. Vampire he was with a political agenda, a philosophical agenda. Now, he calls that typical rebound reaction. He has learnt so many things.

He has supported the enemies of the dynasty as the charioteer was never punished, holding Ramesside Pharaohs for criminals. He supported the Assyrians, the Persians, the Nubians… Alexander. He could not care less…Caesar came and he supported Caesar. Seth knows how hateful, how revengeful he was. He wanted to turn all humanity to become as dark and bitter as him. He went to West to…invade Britain! West was where the Dead were, where the Sun set. His heart was so dark; he had to make the world be as broken. The sheer stupidity, the vanity of this magnificent …inane…he chuckles and he laughs because he was so.. He…by the Galilean Christ, what a moron. He was a moron. Well, when one is young, one is sure a fire eater!

The plan failed. Loads of people have tried to invade Britain, including Bonaparte. The Corsican had failed and he had way more troops than a single handed vampire, however enraged and vengeful he might be. He was certainly punished. Eight hundred years below ground, stuck in that skull. Because the damned werewolf was too stupid to complete the job. Good grief the rule is simple: you behead, you remove the fangs and then you...burn. If you do not respect the formula, pop goes out the un-dead weasel. You can alter the formula like the Venetians who broke the teeth with a big rock hurled in your face and staked you, nailing you to the ground. So many ways to try and get rid of those cursed un-dead. Those dead souls, who do not want to die. Whatever way, must have been painful. It seems to be working for those vamps did not come back, even after being properly soaked in blood.

To feel a sword going through your neck is painful. Staying buried alive in a skull eight hundred years or so, that has been very painful. A cell with no door! He knows who he has to thank for been freed after that very long silent Hell. He knows it required a literal blood bath. A real bath of blood, a river of blood. Enough blood to drip drop, drip drop on his rotting bones to give him life again. Sigmund had killed all the peasants, crucifying the wolf as a final touch. Hildegard eyes remained obstinately closed. He does not think she would have condoned this outrageous display of grief. It was payback. He understands; he would have done the same. He did the same. Let the world perish; let Life perish. Let it all be extinct because the one you lived for has forever crossed the dark waters of the Styx. Life is valueless; nobody in his sane mind wants to carry on living, breathing if she does not breathe anymore.

He has lost his mind; he was a total nutter at the time. It took what four more hundred years to realize he was alive and stop digging in every direction but the right one, upward. Then he had to drink because he was so thirsty. One thousand two hundred years below ground would give any man the munchies! Eight hundred years of jail followed by four hundred years of insanity and the constant madness of a never-ending nightmare

While she adjusts to this new world, where she is dead yet feels alive, he watches over her and he does not understand what the Gods have in mind for him now. Since too many years to count 1274BC exactly Qadesh, his life has been full of rage, hate, hunger and blood lust. Mostly hate. Since less than 400 years, he has started that very slow climb up back to decency. It has taken man something like three or five millions years to get from the animal ape to the human ape. So long, so short. Is it what the Gods have in mind? Let him see the prize if he enters fully back into the ranks of humanity. Is it the way they tell him he has lost her like the Greek Poet? A last waltz? He is with her in that limbo. They are both dead yet there is no door yet.

Because he is dead. This time, he is really dead. No vampire death as un-death. No Death cheating magical vampire act. As the speeding car tried and failed to avoid Eshe, it has rammed into the wooden barriers of the construction site of the park music pavilion. He has seen her dying before him. Before in the past and before him on the crossing. He has felt the acute despair of losing her again. He has not paid attention to the flying wooden shards. As sharp as a stake. He has not paid attention to the stake heading to his chest, not that he would have avoided it if he had seen it. Staked by accident! He is proper dead by accident! Sheer luck, Sweet irony. That should teach a lesson or two to the young generation. The generation who dares to call themselves the Old Ones. How old are they? At best one thousand, let's be generous one thousand five hundred years. Less than half his age. Kids! You need to grow up!

He may not look himself that old. He would have forgotten how he looks if he had not had the good idea to have a full length portrait of himself done in 1837. At the time, photography was still in infancy, but he knew the peril and the fascinating progress it was giving humanity. A triptych portrait a la Van Dyck showing a tall young man standing up, dressed as a fashionable of the era. A bit of a dandy if his rather dark skin was not giving out his foreign origin. In the past, his Mediterranean looks have not always helped blending into a mostly white population. His skin is verging on swarthy. These days, multiculturalism makes him invisible. And he had taken to a Yorkshire accent by mimicry! All they can say about him, is he has a bit of hooded eyes, not Asian though. The looks of a very urbanized gypsy. A rogue, a lovable rogue to use a Hollywood cliché. A young rogue. Avery old man.

A very old man who should be a mummy lying in rows with other mummies in the British Museum. Said Museum employs him. He seldom goes there. Just to pick up the work. Otherwise he stays home. His "skin condition". He prefers to go out at night. But he works daytime on his computer and he is very good at translating Ramesside hieroglyphs. If he does not appear on camera, he knows how to use it. His boss asks if he has a trick. Why doesn't he put his system on software? He pretends he's hapless at copyrighting. There is no software. He translates because he speaks the language. So far he has not come up with his own writings. That would be something to translate his own writings…three thousand years later…

The Old Ones, they would not appreciate the fun of it. A respected if very dull Egyptologist who stays put at home because of a silly skin complaint. Who avoids to be …seen and certainly does not attend any Christmas do or party. Who finally provided his photo after a long time despite numerous emails and requests. The time it took to find the perfect doppelganger…The man was paid handsomely for the excellent job. Too bad it never got published. Not that it mattered as the doppelganger has landed itself a job modelling for Dior. Because "it" was not killed. Because "he" has stopped killing. He feeds. Naturally he feeds. He has to feed. Everyone on this planet has to drink and eat to survive. Being a vampire he has the unique privilege to drink, eat and "feed". Disgusting need.

The OO are proud…pff…what do they know, the kindergarten munchkins. Blood is a need, a physical need. Alcoholics need their pints, junkies need their shots, and cocaine druggies need their lines. He needs blood. If there is no shame there is no pride. The OO are proud of being predators; is a shark proud of "feeding"? He doubts it. Are humans proud to eat fish and chips or chicken tikka massala? No.

He feeds sensibly. He does spend the minimum of time required for it. No gorging, no fast-food, no take-away. No take-life-away, no fast-gore. He is now an angel of mercy. A dark angel of mercy. He does not show on camera. He goes at night in the hospices, the nursing homes. The lonely old folk's houses. The houses of the tired, the ones in pain. In agonizing pain. The ones who are going to die, whether he shortens the course of their lives or not. He is the living proof that cancer, angina, lung disease, you name it are not contagious. He does not prey on children. The OO do not have that elegance. Children are the future; all children. Even in the darkest hour, he knows their parents would not thank him. No feeding, no turning. Children are hopes of the future; if they have to die, let them start a new cycle of life and re-incarnation. To get them stuck for eternity as a child vampire is monstrous. He is not a monster. Anymore. He shortens the course of the one in excruciating pain. That is all and he does not turn.

He was opposed to turning when he was young, though when he felt too lonely… A man needs "some" company, even if he is grieving... he is as adamant now one does not turn. He was not turning because he was so full of hate of a happy unsuspecting humanity; he felt humans did not deserve the gift. At least that is a sin he has not committed. No dark angel for him, no sir. No sir, thank you but I'll pass becoming responsible for a young vampire antics! He has accepted the responsibility of becoming a sire reluctantly. Those days are over. Now, he does not turn because he does not want to inflict to anybody his condition. Contagion must be quarantined. Contamination must stop. The spread will not pass on…

Humans, he has made peace with them. It is not their fault if a long time ago a stupid charioteer killed his beloved on a freak accident... They are his brothers, not his children… He cares for them. He is useful; he tells them the history of a long gone civilization. He works; he eats drinks and feeds sensibly. He is as healthy as can be considering he is un-dead as can be. He gets paid, he pays taxes. He watches PM questions. He is the perfect law abiding citizen. Except he is the angel of Death…

And today after three thousand years, an accidental wood stake projectile has killed him. Now he is fully human again. When the stake stabbed him, he was taken by surprise, but did not try in a reflex to take away the wooden dagger. If the other crossers were surprised at his sudden disappearance and the fallen clothes on the pavement, they did not show. They must have thought it was a common hallucination brought by the stress of the road traffic accident. Because otherwise, it would mean vampires walk among us. Vampires! Ah, ah! Undead! Well, this poor young woman, sadly she is dead. Instead of indulging into stupid fantasies, let's care for a real tragedy. The death of a real human being.

Good thing he had changed the pair of socks this morning otherwise he will be remembered as the mysterious vanishing body with the "hole on the left great toe" sock! All his clothes and shoes. But not his wallet. His wallet did not show on post-Life Earth but it is there in his chest pocket. He feels its faint pressure on his left breast. Weird. He was afraid to find himself in Hell, naked with a useless wallet containing a false driving license. Because … they all know. The vampires all know. When you are staked; your clothes fall on the floor. Hence you are in your birthday suit when you reach Hell. Morons, all of them. For all their supposed worldliness, vampires still believe in the quaint description of Hell from the Middle Ages. He believed that Hell was like… like in the Sistine Chapel… which he has visited last year. Told you, he made his peace with God. His very blind, very stupid Peace. Naked, because the clothes fall off…Nitwit, they fall off because they do not have an After-Life. You have. You have an After-Life. You have a conscience. Your tie does not!

Isis or Eshe has accepted she is dead and the double reality of the white room and the road accident scene is changing. No more double screening, a film showing on another film running scroll. London 2011 is fading. Good bye, the Olympic Games. She is no more a body, a corpse in a black zipped plastic bag; she is a young woman quite worried yet alive in what? Limbo? Limbo is a void; she knows that. This...that...room is not limbo. She is proceeding by trials, errors and sometimes giving the right answer. She is dead; something is going to happen. She is in a room; something will happen in this room. She is not alone; something will happen to the two of "us". To both of us.

She got first in the white room; she is sure of that. Then she heard a groan, and he has literally materialized on the floor. It is like SyFy, plenty of special effects. The effects are real, both of them are in a white room and they share a common fate after an almost common death. The young man means something. Who is he? She tries hard to remember; she can't. She knows though that he knows her. A lot. Enough to kiss her behind her very sensitive left ear. Do not ask, it is her left ear. And he has zoomed on that ear like a vulture.

He is at the very same time sad and happy. He is clearly sad that despite her best endeavours she does not remember him. He holds her tight, like he was thinking she is bound to remember now. She cannot have forgotten how happy we were! And she likes his kisses. It is like her body remembered but not her...her conscience. Who is he? Is it important? That is when she knows she has asked herself the one and only important question. Because the foggy walls seem to shimmer.

Is it important she really knows who he is or is it more important to follow what her heart says, what are her cells are telling her? Eshe, my dear, you know this man...and you love him. Whether you fell in love just one second before the crash or you have always loved him from Eternity, which means all is written, and there is this thing known as re-incarnation...which does not matter... Do you love him Eshe? Because Love comes with consequences, responsibilities and duty. Do you love this man, Isis? There will be no turning back. What is your answer, Eshe?

"Yes"

"Yes, just as dead as you. And I have been waiting for you...for a very long time. Isis, Eshe. My very sweet lady. You have no idea how long has been the journey that I have taken to find you again, here, now. Don't...don't you ever leave me again...ever again"

He is speaking complete gobbledygook. She has fallen in love with a mad man. At least, he is not slavering with wild eyes. He is just in shock and needs reassurance. She is happy to give...and he is happy to receive. He is going to get out of this trance, perk up... Even mad as a hatter, she knows she loves him. Eshe knows that love comes with standing by your man. She is going to stand by him. Whatever happens, whatever he has done?

She does not understand. It does not matter. As long as the two of them are in each other arms. Her lovely alive beating heart against his silent one. Stupid vampire heart. Why does it stay immobile when nothing can go wrong? Surely not now? The Gods have decided that after three thousand years, the lovers should be united again. Eshe had to die again. Euridyce dies again. Hades is cruel; he never intended to release his vice grip on the tender bride. Hades is merciful; he extends his welcome to Orpheus. United in life, united in Death. What matters is being together, being united. Together in Death, like now... He blesses the Gods; smart move, guys. The wooden stake...and it strikes him! How could he be so daft!

The original plan was straightforward. Accidents happen. Gods cannot tolerate perfect happiness, perfect soul mates. Eshe had to die, like Euridyce. But, and that is the important but...so did Seth. Seth had to die with Eshe, just an instant later. Long enough to feel heartbroken; short enough to be standing just behind her in the queue for the weighing of the souls. The weighing of the heart. Seth was the next on the Death calling list...and something happened. He will never know. Was one of the Gods a tad tipsy? Anubis was playing his game of Senet. Seth's game when the divine hand who was holding the dices about to be rolled and his dices, Seth Bari dices rolled and rolled and rolled away, far away from the tablet where the game was played. He was going to have to live a very, almost endless limitless life while Eshe was due for the cold embrace of the sarcophagi. No way the Gods would appear or send a letter. "Dear Seth, we apologize for the delay. But due to a technical fault, you are going to die in 2011AD and not in 1274BC. Be patient; we are sorting out your account. In the meanwhile, enjoy. Signed: the Godly management." Would he have accepted to stay put and quiet? Would he have raged against the divine Stooges? The answer is there for all to see. Informed or not of the Godly blunder, he was bound to be very angry. He had to become a vampire. Vampires are sort of temporary immortal; that will keep him occupied! Total fucking cunt of Gods, he has been indeed much occupied at doing terrible, horrible things. Love Story has become Nightmare on Elm Street. While he was set on leaving miles and miles of blood behind him, she was endlessly re-incarnated. Like a sign post. Do not despair; be patient. "Your call will be answered shortly". And he has missed so many signals. So many warnings. Because he knows now what is coming!

Eshe and Seth had to die together. Finally Seth has joined the stage. The Gods can proceed. They will weigh first Eshe soul. That is going to be easy. What crime can an innocent girl, dead as such a young age, commit? None. You passed, girl. Come and get your diploma. You can enter happily the soul recycling machine. Welcome to Re-incarnation City. Now Seth, it is your turn! Ammit, the devourer of souls, the scourge of the black hearts is licking her lips. Seth, what have you done?


	8. The End?

The Book of the Dead

Disclaimer: BH, BH characters, all belongs to Toby Whithouse. On the other hand, the Book of the Dead belongs to Pharaonic Egypt. It also belongs to the anonymous mummies in whose tombs those papyri were carefully placed.

After some three thousand and two hundred years, Seth and Eshe are facing Anubis, Maat and the Devourer. Innocent, beautiful Eshe sees in Ammit a cuddly puppy. Seth the vampire on the other hand has all to fear from the crocodile snout monster. The weighing of the blackest of heart can begin...

Why the wallet? Why is it important…It must be important. Everything now is highly significant. Highly important. Maat, Goddess of Justice with her white feather symbol of truth. Ammit, the arse-holed devourer of souls. It is his Judgment day. You bet it is important! His wallet is with him because he has to prove his identity. His name. Seth born a long time ago. Dead today. Inside, there is some paper money. It will not relevant. But it is? Why? Oh he gets it: message to you Seth. Money is not relevant. Message to Powers that be. I fucking know.

What else: the false driving license: Proof of Identity. We are not what we are. We are more than it seems to be. OK second message. Be patient, Eshe; bear with me. I have led a long life, contrary to you who has entered this room so many times. You know the drill; all is new to me. Photos of my "human" family. My false family…My family! Naturally my family. It is blinding. My family. I have used them, abused them naturally; but Charles and Charles's mother I fed on to help her cross the door as her bone metastases were horridly painful…Charles has sincerely thanked me and had given his human friendship genuinely. Those are my real friends, my real family. Charles is going to ring my mobile which…which I have no more. That will tell him I am gone. I am going to be mourned! After three thousand years, I am getting my own genuine 21st century version of mourners. Lesson to self: it is also about the others. Worrying about them, even after Death. Learning their affection was genuine.

The Gods mean business. This is his real Judgement Day…Hence stating the obvious, stating each and every detail. The book of the Deads: it was the omen he has missed. He must have missed a lot of clues…

He is fully dressed with a ghost. Another ghost. Thank heaven, they are fully dressed! Not that he would have mind looking closely at her if she has that very freckle at that very same place…Which means she would have seen that he has a rather ugly scar on his right knee. That plus the fact that he does not like going about naked for all of them to see. Here, between the two of them, it would have been barely more tolerable. So they are dressed. Fully clothed. No Birthday suit. A corporate suit! With a non-descript tie which he picked up this morning at random…

Because he is a ghost. Not a vampire in ... At first for a second, he has thought when… A sudden feel of unbearable heat, warmth, like a desert sand storm of boiling heat then this…A ghost? Such a heat. An engulfing wave of heat like falling into a lake of molten lava. Then it stopped. There is not molten lava. He is not in Hell. And he is a ghost…with her…He shakes his head in denial. He is not Death. Is he a dead person too? Did he die when she died, trying to save her? Poor hero, he is now in her very same predicament. Both … spirits? A ghost surely. It better be a ghost and not ...else.

She is not a spirit, she is possibly spiritual, but she has a body…in that dimension. She is not a body-less ethereal being. She wonders if she is not thirsty. Are ghosts endowed with the need to drink tea?

- "What are we going to do…now? I mean, you…you are like me. Dead!"

- "I do not know. I know plenty of things, loads of things. Useless things. I do know how Cleopatra's nose was looking; I know Nero did not sing that well. I know why the French lost at Agincourt, that Louis the 14th was a twat and James Stuart an idiot who let his bollocks be squeezed by his Italian wife. I know…I know I am…

- "A history teacher? Much good it does to us. We are ghosts. What does history teach about ghosts? Be useful! I mean us. Ghosts are not useful."

- "Eshe, really…I know about the doors. Our doors. We must wait for our doors to appear" (How can he tell her about Ammit? She has nothing to fear from the crocodile snouted creature with the lion mane. On the other hand, he has all to fear. Better tell her about the doors)

- "Doors?"

"A door. A door for each of us...to cross. Some lead to...Paradise, I think for the people who see through the mist seem thrilled and so blissfully happy. Most lead to Purgatory where we meet more doors giving on different significant parts of our past. Where we make amends. Some lead to no light at all, where we fall in the Gehenna; it is Hell. Eshe, don't worry. I know your life and your 2011 life is about as blameless as it was in Egypt. Eshe, do not fear!"

- "Wow. For once someone who is able to pronounce properly my name. Do you know you are the only one! The best they come up is Isis!"

- "It derives from Isis. It means lovely, Nefer mean beautiful. Mine means "the dazzler", the "swashbuckler" if you want or the "Set follower" as in the God servant…"

- "You are an Egyptologist? I love Egypt! This country is fascinating. Do you know that their Gods are sort of two-sided? Sometimes, I think I am the re-incarnation of Nefertari or titi…what's her name?"

- "I was not born when Lady Nefertiti died. But you are way better looking that Queen Nefertari. She is truly endowed when it comes to breasts and her hips are very generous. But her nose is not straight and she squints! As long as Pharaoh likes it, who am I, a simple scribe to disagree!"

- "What? What? What are you saying? The accident must have injured your brain. Hello Egypt three thousand years ago, London 2012 Olympics! Hello Earth to Moon! Let's sit and take a deep breath. We are both dead. Death is not a cause of dementia! You are troubled, I am troubled. Let's sit and take a deep breath. There is no chair… but there will be a door"

"When do the doors come?"

"Any time soon" He does not know how his door will look. He knows where it will lead. This is the train platform where he bids forever goodbye to his Isis. This time, it is him who leaves. His heart is breaking in infinite mall hurting pieces. It is Hell paging for him. Those last instants with her are so precious. They are the only things he wants to know, remember before annihilation. That once upon a time, he loved.

They are standing in white or greyish nothingness. The floor is a bit blurry and above their head there is no ceiling, no wall just blurry whiteness. And no chair. No table, no tea. She is now getting really thirsty. Is she to stand up for Eternity? No! She sits on the floor, patting through the misty blur for him to sit by her. If this is Death, Death is no reason not to be social and well-behaved.

- "I do not know the protocol. I think it must be like on earth. I mean on life. My name is Eshe Salama McDowell. It means…

- "Peace. Mine is Set with or without h Barry. Though it should be Bari as in skipper. Blessed is Set, skipper of Ra night boat. Yours is Rejoice in the peace of Isis. I'll spare you the grammar and the verb tenses; In Egypt, we like to have meaningful names!"

- "What are you talking of? It is not funny. We are both dead. Do not deny it! You are as dead as me and you are discussing the meaning of our names. Show me your head. You must have suffered a head injury!"

He submits. He submits happily. At first when alive, not dead, not fully dead, un-dead, he had seen her, he had thought the Gods are merciful. I am given a second chance. When he saw her dying, he thought the Gods were bastards.

Since he is dead, he thinks the Gods have a plan for him…And her. They are both dead, proper dead. He is no more a vampire. He must not be a vampire. He better not be a vampire any more. She is not at risk of contamination. Death, endless endless. What is Time, past, present, future? And he speaks of verb tenses… he is a moron. All is significant. Including the time elapsed which means nothing.

She has a body. Because he feels her body next to his and the curves are for real. The pressure is real on his left side, and her perfume is real. His left arm slowly slides behind her back which does not dissolve, his hand now has reached her waist and it holds. The black hair is now resting on his shoulder and it tickles his left cheek. The proof is in the pudding. Ghosts have a body! Which is logic in action. Ghosts do not have a body when they are among humans, live humans or vampires as un-dead-yet humans.

Once proper dead, dead humans with other dead humans have a body! All along, the tenets of his old religion were right. In a weird way. Mummification is not useful, but they are alive and they are certainly human. Which means Maat is going to come. She is going to face the monster. He is going to face Ammit. She is innocent; she will walk in the happy fields. His soul is going to be eaten alive by Ammit. As per explained by the Book of the Dead. Just like the one he is translating. They are waiting to be judge. Once the feather confirms his crimes, he will be thrown to Ammit. She is saved, he is damned. He breathes heavily.

She does not understand the mood changes of her companion. She knows the poor dear is having a pet. He was not expecting to die today. If like her as she fell in love with him instants before dying, love at first sight; he fell in love with her just the same; well in those few micro-seconds, he may have been contemplating an unadulterated lifetime of connubial bliss. Life…one second you are thinking whether to invite cousin George to your wedding, next second you wonder if George has a black suit because he is going to need one at your cremation…Madness…No wonder he is muttering nonsense. More than one…dead…must have lost his and her mind.

What she understands is that the sly fox has cunningly managed to hold her in his left arm and that her head is resting on his shoulder. Broody yes, typical male none the less!

He may be devoured in a few seconds to come. He is holding her and it feels good. Ammit may kill him; she will not remove this instant from him. He is holding her again. And it feels good. Will he kiss her? Will he dare to kiss her? How long has it been since he last kissed her? Does he know still how to kiss? Does he know still how to…well you know…with a ghost? Because Ammit seems to be running late or she has trouble finishing her meal. The meal of the soul just before his. Because he is still with Eshe and he is kissing her. If Ammit does not come now, he…he… If Ammit does not come now, Ammit is going to discover he has better things to do than wait to be judged!

Great…Shame, he is entertaining lascivious thoughts while waiting to be executed. Set, human scribe turned soldier turned vampire turned headless corpse for eight to twelve hundred years turned vampire-yes, again-and since the last about three hundred years vampire trying his best to be as human as can be sail as close to the wind of humanity as it will ever be possible for any human who needs to drink blood regularly. Set is entertaining X-rated thoughts. Ah, he is a man, amen to that! Poor Eshe, you deserve better than him!

Since three hundred years, he has avoided to kill…what he calls improperly. He started selecting his kills, limiting to vagrants. Then, he made it a rule to kill killers. Then he refused to participate into wars and chaotic conflicts. If his eyes turned into black orbs, they were not seen, hidden behind closed eyelids. Then he has selected the dying ones. He feeds respectfully. He simply anticipates Death, he does not cause it. He respects the future victims; he even holds their hands, he speaks to them. He shares what he knows of the afterlife. He is almost like a priest. He says the Words, he closes the eyes. He gives courage to the believer; he gives hope to the unbeliever. He knows of purgatory. He knows there are the shimmering Lights. He does not know much about what is behind the shiny curtains, except it must be very, very…he means it very good. He knows about Hell, he does not know. If the heat-wave which seized him when he was staked a few minutes (or is it hours; must be days now) Hell is "warm" and that is where he will be heading. So far he is heading nowhere, because he is holding her, kissing her and fuck arsehole Ammit, it feels good!

It is Death. She is dead. She is with another ghost, a male ghost. A nice male ghost who seems to think she is fair game for kissing Eternity away. She wonders if this is indeed Eternity and if this carries on. Him and her alone, at one point, he is not going to try and see if…well…if. She laughs which surprises him. He was kissing, nibbling, almost biting gently her neck (she is going to have ghost love bites for sure!) and she laughs. She must not tell him. Possibly they cannot "do" it or they can; possibly the young man is not having any thoughts at all whether they can do it or not. Eshe! You have a dirty mind! She likes him, she likes his kisses. She would have like to know him more. Alive. Now she has Eternity to know him more. She does not understand. Something in her tells her she knows him already. Which is why her heart bounced when she saw him across the zebra crossing, which is why she loves the way he kisses her? Which is why she is happy to be kissed and to stay in his arms safe forever? Forever? She is thirsty. She could kill for a cup of tea or coffee or even a can of Red Bull.

- "Who are you? Do I know you? You can carry on the…the kissing thing. But who are you?"

- "You have forgotten? You do not remember, do you?"

- "Tell me. Tell me. Something tells me there is more than being dead. Us being together."

He gasps; she feels him gasping. Ammit comes in many guises. Ammit has always been here. The monster is ready to devour his soul. Truth is a monster and Eshe wants the truth. He is living his last instants of pure happiness. He is going to lose her again for Eternity. She is going to know what he has done during those long thousands of years while she was sleeping blissfully unaware he had become a monster. The fool, he simply needed to wait the next cycle of incarnation. Now here is the price. If he had been patient, he would be as spotless as her and they would walk together toward the Kingdom ruled by Osiris. He has rebelled against the Gods' Will; he is going to lose her. He has to tell her the truth.

- "It starts by a long time ago. It is not a pretty story. It is…"

- "Tell me"

She is so gentle and sweet; he is going to crush her heart. He has to tell the truth. Then all makes sense. The Gods are not Bastards. No they are not devious, they are not stupid plumbers. They are wise and patient. Again and again, they send clues. And again and again he has missed seeing them! She is Maat, Justice who is going to see him paying homage to all the dead. Maat, with the white feather of Truth. Angelique and her white feathers hat! Hildegard silky hair ribbon to hold the feather. Ammit…he is Ammit; he is the devourer of souls. The Gods are just complicated. Well, they are Gods. They are…not insufferable, they have a lofty view. A wider view than him human. Let's the judgement beginning…

- "Some three thousand years ago, you and I, Yes, you and I, we go way back. You and I, it is forever, for Eternity. Who knows, from the time there were cavemen? Which is the only hope I have, we may enter another cycle of re-incarnation. Another cycle that I will not mess up like this one. Because I have seriously messed up this one. Eshe, you have no ideas what terrible, what horrible things I have done…"

- "Tell me"

The moment of truth has come. The revelation. She knows deep in her heart the man who holds her is the man she has always and will forever love. He is not perfect. This is perfect, she is not perfect. She makes fun at Mrs Deacon fat bosom and the way Mr Collins slurps his biscuit in his tea. She has managed twice not to pay her train ticket! She is not perfect. He is bound to be imperfect too. What is spot on is that, as much as deeply as she knows she loves this man, "she does not know" and she does not care. She does not know why; she just knows she loves. And it is good enough for her She did not "know" when she was alive. She did not know that Love does exist, that Love changes your view of the world. She did not know how much better and happy is the world when you love someone. She knows he loves her too and that is what makes perfection. Paradise. I love you, you love me. What could go wrong?

Truth. Paradise. Hell…He has to tell her. Because he has missed so many years being blind. Missing each and every call, signal from the Gods. What lessons has he missed, misunderstand

- "A long time ago, you and I. We were lovers. It went wrong. You were killed. An accident. A charioteer. Unable to stop his horses. It was in Egypt. Pharaoh was Ramses the Great. The guy who was unable to hold the horse reins properly, was one of Pharaoh numerous sons. I could get no justice. I left the temple where I was working as a scribe and enrolled to become a soldier. I hated…the world. I could not bear to have you entering the house of the deads. Becoming one of those dried up mummies,… it was Hell. I fought and killed at Qadesh. The battle. Then I was turned and I killed ... more. My life is that. You know when you go shopping…my…me… I went on a very long killing spree. A river of blood, a coral reef of bones. I have killed…you have no idea…So many…so many terrible things. I have killed…I am a serial killer, a mass murderer!"

"That was a long time ago. You are…we are both re-incarnated. Yesss! We are re-incarnated. And finally we are together. Dying was worth it. I do not remember Egypt at all. But I know I love you and I…I love the way you kiss". Yes, Eshe luv. You do.

"You are re-incarnated, Peace of the Dove Goddess. I am not. (No, Seth. You are not, because you have stubbornly avoided Death)

"You are…not. You know, I think you have suffered a concussion! Who lives three or four thousand years? Nobody. Even…even…Dracula did not live that long"

"No, he was a young one. He loved his lady and finally found her. Lucky guy, he found her in what… just the next following cycle. I have been waiting for you over the last three thousand years."

What? Did she hear well? Not only she is the re-incarnation of an Egyptian beauty (yeah, cool!) but her beloved now is going bonkers and believes he is very old. And he speaks of Dracula like it was… real?

"If you were three thousand, or let's be reasonable, willyah! Three hundred years old, it would be impossible. It is impossible. Because you would be a vampire! Ah,ah! Gotcha!"

"Ah-ah! Because I am. Who got whom?"

"You…you. It is impossible. Vampires do not exist!" (They must not exist. Please, Mary, Mother of God, tell me they do not exist. Tell me Seth is... nice!)

"Look at me. Look…"

Truth. Moment of truth. Trial. The judge asks the prosecution to present the evidence. Evidence such as the fangs, my Lord. The fangs and the black orbed eyes. He takes a deep breath. He does not know if ghosts, vampiric ghosts do have fangs and black eyes. He knows is that the hunger is gone, the blood lust is gone. Gone with the hate and the anger. Evidence…He knows. Evidence: May the prosecution present the evidence.

Her irises are dilating in horror. In wonder and surprise. She sees…Unbelievable things. The man who kissed her who gave her love bites has…fangs and those eyes. Oh my God…Oh my God. He is…she was kissed by a… He is…he is a vampire…But he is dead…like her. Do the ghosts of vampires need to drink the blood of human ghosts? And if she thinks of drinks, she feels thirstier. In the afterlife…do ghosts need to drink the blood of the ghosts of vampires turning the horror around and avenging the victims?

He looks at her with shame, he is so ashamed. He looks away. He is ready to let her go. Ammit has eaten his soul alive; he has lost her. Truth is in the open. Now he knows that if ghost he is, he is the ghost of a vampire none the less. Not thirsty but about to pay the price, pay the bill for all the blood drunken since three thousand years. Hell of a bill. He has almost freed her from his arm when she snuggles deeper in his embrace.

"What happened? Is it what you mean when you said…"turned?"

"Ho-hum. Yeah. I was…made. My sire was a Hittite spy. After that, well…you can guess. I have fought along quite a few years. The Middle East has never ever been a place for peace…Oh, Eshe, I have been so stupid. So angry, I needed you…I need you. I can't live without you. It has been three thousand years of Hell without you. And now to have you again in my arms…I know they are going to take you away again and I can't bear it. I will not have it. I want you, now, forever or I want to be erased, annihilated, burnt down and never ever resuscitated again. I need you, I want you, I love you"

She is locked in the tightest, the fiercest of embrace. It is a good thing she is dead otherwise he would be crushing her ribs and she would be dead. So this man is her lover since…a long time. She is totally unable to remember the past but her heart tells her he is not mad. Eshe dear, this man is the man you love, you have loved forever? Always loved? Love forever? You love him and time does not count. Good. This man is also a vampire who clearly has been on the warpath since a long time too. That means that his karma is black. The blackest of all. Well, Eshe, you cannot have your cake and eat it too! You cannot love this man for Eternity and be loved by him and think this quality of love comes free of charge.

She loves him; she will be his defence lawyer. His angel of mercy. His guardian angel. Live to your words, live to your heart. True, he has committed crimes, nameless crimes. Big and bad. But he is repentant, he wants atonement. He is to pay back; he accepts there is retribution.

"I love you too. I love you and we are together. What could go wrong?"

"I have…"

"Yes, you have and you have been bad. Bad, bad, bad; and very naughty! And you are going to tell me each and every crime you have committed and we are going to pray together for the soul of each and every of your victim. We are going to visit each and every crime scene and you are going to face your victims…if that is possible. You are going to pay and pay you will. But you are not going to do that alone. I am here. I know you…did it for me. Because of me. It was wrong, but it was because of me. I love you, I accept you for my very imperfect love of my life. We are together in it"

"It is my fault. You …you are innocent. See I am doing it again. I should be in Hell and you should have crossed your door since…a long time"

"What if…"

"What "what if"?

"What if there is no door for me? What if God or your Gods in their infinite wisdom and love had decided to solve for good and for all our conundrums?"

He does not understand. What he understands is that she is gone as cryptic as…as a long time ago, just before she died when she had told him love is eternal, never disappear and if she was to die they would meet again and again till they were finally forever together.

"Please do not do anything stupid such as offending the Gods, please"

"What if there is no door for me, because…we have already crossed it. Because we are together. There was a big door for us, a big double door and we are already on the other side. What if we have already been judged? The prosecution had already laid her case and the defence has finished pleading. The judge has decided and here we are. Together. We are together because I…you have to pay back all your crimes and I am to help you!"

"So we are in Hell. You are in Hell for crimes you have not committed! That is what you call Justice?"

He almost rebels. Rebel! He must not. He must accept the will of the Gods, learn to respect the will of the Gods, learn the lessons given by the Gods. What is significant? He has committed so many crimes. Which one is a lesson, which one is not. He must know as he feels somehow in his bones the judgement is not over. Think, Set. Think. Seth you too, are looking at the planes unable to understand…

**61AD**: you want to conquer Britain for the vampires. Ambition…Stupid…Ambition to give Hell? Or …No, it must be a positive message. To be beheaded as a punishment for stupid ambition. No. Endurance, Stamina. Like the running druid. She ran to…to keep the memory of her people…alive. When you love…you keep…you keep their memory alive deep in your heart whether they are alive or not. The memory of your love, of their love gives them eternal life. Yes. **True Love keeps eternally loving**. Because it cuts it both ways. Yes. He sees Ammit. He does not see her; he imagines her. She was going to pounce on him. To devour his soul. But she has stopped. She is still here though, metaphorically naturally.

**839AD**: three people, no five. Sigmund, Hildegard, the anonymous priest and the werewolf even more anonymous…And Andreas. What is the lesson? Love hurts. No. The anonymous are anonymous…because they do not count. The remaining trio, now… Sigmund became a vampire to allow Andreas to conquer Britain. No. Ambition is irrelevant because it is selfish…He became a vampire to capture Hildegard…Hildegard who went willingly to her death to save his soul. Maat tuts. He is not in the right direction…You cannot play games with Love. Try to tweak the delicate scales of time and it is your lover, not you who will suffer. Accept Love as it is; do not try to force it. Ammit tut-tuts. Andreas loved Sigmund. True Love comes in many guises. **True Love is tolerance**. He ticks the box.

**1192AD**: this one is easy. Love is Patience. No, it is not though it was bloody obvious. But it is not that. The six female ghosts have been waiting for their six ghostly companions who…had promised to come back…who did come back. Who were true to their promises? Love is faith. You believe the one you love; if you love you keep your word. You are true to your word. Love is faith, you are faithful. You…Love…Love accepts the passage of time…Yes, Time passes and you carry on loving if your Love is true. **True Love stands the passing of Time**. The Goddesses approve.

**1684AD**: This one and he has almost solved all the riddles. Gods and their mind games. Avery complicated one. Armand, Angelique, Matthias. A dhampyr turned werewolf and whose werewolf child killed his mother. Angelique, good and proud; an angel? Angelical love. No. The gitana, who he has so badly treated. Who loved him despite what he was what she had become. No, it hurts to know he never bothered to know her real name. "Gitana", he called her on his best days or it was "whore". He did not recognize her. Eshe, I have been so blind all along you were at my side. It took the Gods to incarnate twice in the same anno domini your tender sweet soul for me to recognize you. Too late. Love is blind? No, positive think positive. Armand. Armand like Andreas? Friends? True Love fights…empty handed? Armand who went to kill a vampire with about no weapon? Who left the silver bullets to Angelique; who saved his sister and was sacrificed as a consequence? A true hero. True Love has many unsung heroes…True Love loves even it is not rewarded. **True Love is unselfishly given.**

**2011AD**: Pff, it is exhausting.

She does look at him and hears all what he says. She does not understand one word. The poor sweet has totally lost it. She is in love with a vampire who has lost his marbles. Because it does not make sense. She is holding his hands and he looks through her. He speaks to a …monster and a white feather goddess? Now? Here, when there are only two persons, two of them. You Seth, me Eshe. There is no monster, no other woman. You may be a vampire; you have a serious head trauma. The car must have jolted badly your long memories.

**2011AD**…Ha-Nee. No. Or..No. Barry Island. No. Seth, the moron. No. Wyndham, no. Wyndham has shown him Sigmund and Andreas committing suicide. That is not positive. Sigmund wanted to go back, find back Hildegard. You were right, mate because you must have entered the re-incarnation cy… He is thick. Vampires are thick! Sigmund went home to his lady; Andreas went home to his parents! On the way to the train station for Cardiff, he has prayed to go home. Love…home…? Home? **True Love only knows but one home: the heart of the one you love. **

Justice is fairness. Justice is Maat. Maat reads the hearts, read the souls. Set has committed infinite crimes, but deep inside his love for Eshe has never wavered. Never, just as total and pure as the first day he set his eyes on the smiling girl who was carrying flowers to the temple. Somewhere deep inside that soul, Maat knows there is something good and that flicker of goodness, that streak of decency deserves to be recognized and saved. He needs to be punished, true. Set is the god of the cruel desert storms; Set is also the stalwart protector of the night barque of Ra. Fighting for Ra. His only protector. His only one and pure love. His true love. A fighter yes, a faithful loving fighter.

Eshe is Peace, is Love, pure love given endlessly. Always bountiful. Eshe, Isis who despite her sorrow goes to search for every bit of the body of the slain Osiris. Patient Isis. Patient Eshe who has waited so long to finally incarnate in London because she knows that one day in 2011 she will be crossing a street where on the other side Set will be waiting. She knows the day and she knows the day and the hour. She foresees the uncontrollable car and the flying wooden stake. Eshe is patient because she loves. If it takes three thousand years to save her beloved, she will wait as long as it is needed. For her love is true.

"you are innocent"

"Hush"

"But…"

She is the one doing the kissing. She is the one doing the loving. And it feels good. The Book of the Deads is deadly serious and so wrong. She does not mind to be stuck into that vast expansion of nothing with him. She wants him. She loves him, she is with him. She wants to stay with him forever. If that is Hell, what must be Paradise. She has always loved him; she has waited for him for so long…

He has committed crimes, terrible crimes. He loves her and Gods, does he want her! For how long are they going to be together; he does not know. How long is she going to be with him? How long before she is snatched away again from him? He does not know. In this place which rules he does not understand except there are lessons to be learnt, she is with him. This is a lot better than the past thousands of years. She is with him. He has never been happier since…since a very long time. She is with him, and she is not going away; she has not rejected him. She loves him as much as before, because he is not perfect. He is far from perfect. But he really, really loves her. And he wants her. Now. And she wants him. Now.

Epilogue

While the two humans are discovering their appetite for each other is as whole and intact as it was a long time ago, they walked away from the room side by side. The humans have not seen them. For Gods are not to be seen by humans even if said humans have supernatural powers. At best, they are simply just a passing blurry cloud. The tall proud Goddess of Justice and Truth, Maat walking her faithful hound Ammit, the devourer. As usual, all has gone well. The dark soul had opened up and accepted Gods are wise. Peace is going to be restored for numerous souls. Harmony again. For the sinner is back in the house of the Lord. For the prodigal son is back home! The Gods are Love. Their child is back home. No vengeance. Vengeance is for the weak souls. The Gods are Peace, Beauty and Harmony. The prodigal son is home, his sins are atoned… Because even the victim may forgive, the real repentant sinner cannot forgive or forget. Naturally, he is not going to be told yet. Yes, Ammit! He has been naughty and thus has to learn that what he did was wrong, how why and when. He must undo each and every wrong he did. She is going to help it. She will not do his penance, she will give him the strength to do his penance as big boy Horus must learn to walk by himself and stop being carried around Isis the divine Mother. Gods are complicated. They are wise and only the Gods see the big picture. Ammit, purrs like a lion cub. A playful kitten. Yes indeed…and not, Eshe. The Gods are two-sided; the Gods are many more sided. The two Goddesses walk through the curtain of shimmering light and disappear…

A long, a very long time ago as the Gods devised the destiny of their human toys, it was agreed that Set and Eshe would be forever lovers and happy in Egypt. Things happen. Such as a spill of wine in a cup served to a God and then Eshe closes her beautiful eyes way too soon. Or not as it was written that both would die together at the same time.

True Eshe died; sadly Set was still alive. The man who would not die was the man who could not die. The Gods had to reset the whole re-incarnation machine. It was found the perfect date was today unless it is yesterday or tomorrow. Time is different for Gods. What matters is harmony. The perfect chord to play was today. They have informed again and again not to despair. Humans are so blind to the obvious

What to do. And naturally the re-incarnation system, the washing machine of souls needs repair. There is delay. When all is back in order ready to go, Set is a vampire. No problem, let's play with him while the machine works back the backload of souls and By Ourselves, it is going to take time, three thousand and more of years before Set meets Eshe again. You cannot expect to live so old, so long , keeping a young heart, a lover's heart without some…err…collateral damages. A vampire drinks blood and kills…

The woman sits at her desk, the big dog at her feet. A faceless anonymous secretary is ready for dictation.

Write that: Set committed numerous crimes and thus is sentenced to jail in "the room with no door of his own repenting soul" till we feel he is safe again for humanity.

Eshe has offered to help him in making amends. We are grateful to her proposal and it makes us happy to accept it. Eshe is to stay in said room as long as it is required for Set to clean his soul from his heinous crimes. They have earned the right to remain lovers as their love has never wavered. Oh. Add that bit: Addendum: Each morning, when they wake up, there will be food and drinks for they are not sentenced to the Hell of hunger and thirst. For they are bound to be thirsty and hungry after their love making!


End file.
